The Forsaken Luna's Rise To The Crown

Elenore Guy POV:

The silver arrowhead felt like a shard of ice buried in my lung.

Each breath was a fresh wave of agony, a wet, gurgling sound that filled my ears. Blood, hot and metallic, spilled past my lips, staining the pristine snow a sickening crimson. I was propped against a pine tree, its rough bark digging into my back, the cold seeping through my torn dress.

They were closing in.

Their heavy boots crunched in the snow, a slow, deliberate circle of death.

Then, a figure detached from the shadows. Everet Cantu. My mate. He wore black, a stark contrast to the winter landscape, his handsome face a mask of chilling indifference. The warmth he usually reserved for me was gone, replaced by something hollow and terrifying.

"Why?" The word was a bloody whisper, torn from my throat. "Everet, why?"

He stopped just out of my reach, his gaze sweeping over me not with concern, but with the detached appraisal of a butcher examining a piece of meat.

A cold smile touched his lips. "You and your precious Stonecrest Pack," he said, his voice smooth as polished stone, "are a gift. My offering to Prince Damien."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Damien? Our ally? The Prince who had sworn to support my father? My mind reeled, refusing to process the betrayal. My stomach twisted into a knot of pure ice.

Everet knelt, his face close to mine. The scent of pine and winter air that I once loved on him now smelled of decay. "Your innocence," he murmured, his breath a cold puff against my ear, "was my greatest weapon."

His fingers, once so gentle, traced the line of my jaw. There was no love in his touch, only a sick, possessive ownership. This was not the man I loved. This was a monster wearing his face.

A surge of adrenaline, born of pure hatred, flooded my veins. My fingers twitched, searching for the small silver dagger I always kept hidden in my sleeve. A useless, decorative thing my father had given me.

My wrist was seized in an iron grip before I could even draw it.

Everet chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "Still the 'Trophy Daughter,' trying to play warrior." He twisted my wrist, and a sharp pain lanced up my arm. "You were always so weak, Elenore. So easy to control."

He released me with a contemptuous shove. Behind him, one of his men raised a bow. The arrowhead glinted in the dying light. It was aimed at my heart.

Tears, hot and hopeless, finally broke free, freezing on my cheeks. "I curse you," I sobbed, the words bubbling up with blood. "May you lose everything you scheme for. May you die alone."

A sudden roar erupted from the trees behind them. The last of my pack's loyal warriors, my family, launching a final, desperate charge.

Everet's head snapped toward the sound, his face contorted in annoyance. That single moment of distraction was an eternity. A chance.

But the bowstring had already sung its deadly song. The arrow struck my shoulder—not my heart. Pain exploded through my body, white-hot and blinding. I collapsed, the world dissolving into a blur of white and red.

I didn't die that night.

I woke, days later, in the cramped cellar of a half-burned farmhouse on the outskirts of our territory. A Stonecrest guard—the same one who had tackled Everet—had dragged my bleeding body through the snow, hidden me, and given his own life to buy me time.

What followed were three years of running. Three years of starvation, of sleeping in caves and hollowed-out tree trunks. Three years of watching, from the shadows, as my father was publicly executed for treason, as my mother faded into a ghost of grief, as our pack's lands were carved up like a carcass among the vultures. I learned to hunt with my hands, then with a bow I stole from a dead rogue. I learned that the soft girl I had been could not survive. So I killed her myself.

But they found me, eventually. Everet's hounds tracked my scent to a frozen riverbed. This time, he didn't bother with an arrow. He looked me in the eyes—me, gaunt and feral and barely human—and slit my throat himself.

As I bled out into the ice, my last thought was not of revenge. It was of failure. I had survived three years of hell and accomplished nothing. My pack was gone. My family was gone. I had only prolonged my own suffering.

Then, only darkness.

A bottomless, silent void.

And then, a violent force seized my soul, yanking me out of the abyss. It was like being pulled from underwater, a desperate, painful rush toward a light I didn't know existed.

Sunlight, blinding and warm, flooded my vision.

I shot up in bed, a gasp tearing from my lungs. I was choking, not on blood, but on air. Clean, fresh air.

My hands flew to my chest. No wound. No pain. Just the frantic, hammering beat of my own heart against my ribs. The fabric of my nightgown was soft and smooth beneath my fingertips.

I looked around, my mind struggling to catch up.

I was in my bedroom. My childhood bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The walls were a familiar, soft blue. On the wall opposite my bed hung a portrait of me, painted for my fourteenth birthday. Young. Naive. Alive.

The room smelled of lavender and honey, my mother's favorite scents.

I scrambled out of bed, my legs trembling, and stumbled to the vanity.

The face in the mirror was mine, but not. It was the face of a girl. Unlined, untouched by grief or betrayal. My eyes, the same icy blue, were wide with shock, not yet hardened by loss. My silver hair, a trait of my lineage, cascaded over my shoulders, vibrant and full of life.

I pinched my cheek. Hard.

Pain, sharp and real, blossomed under my fingers.

This is not a dream. This is not the afterlife. I have been reborn, back to nine years ago.

A soft, familiar voice called from beyond the door. "Elenore, darling, are you ready? We'll be late for the Harvest Moon Gala."

My mother.

That gala. My fingers clenched, knuckles turning white. Nine years ago tonight, Britta Vance first mocked my weakness in front of the crowd, and Everet Cantu first wrapped his sweet words around my judgment. That was the starting point of every disaster.

My hand rose to touch the face in the mirror. My reflection stared back, and in those young, innocent eyes, a flame of pure, cold hatred ignited.

I can feel my heartbeat clearly—strong, steady, one beat after another.

Thump. Thump.

That is the drumbeat of life, fate handing me a second chance to step onto the stage.

The Moon Goddess has not forsaken me; she has granted me the right to begin anew.

In this life, I no longer need naivety, nor will I abide weakness.

All those who betrayed me and crushed my home—this time, I will make them pay in blood.