Chapter 1 The Cursed's Mark

Luna’s POV

As usual, I sweep the floor of the main hall with my head down, hands unpolished, and my heart elsewhere. The whispers are frigid as the stone beneath my bare feet.

"Observe her."

"The one who is cursed."

"The shadow child of the moon."

I act as though I can't hear them. Silence is safer than truth, as I have long since discovered.

I push dust and fallen leaves into my old metal pan by dipping the broom into the corner. My silver-white hair, which gleams like moonlight, falls over my shoulder. Like everyone else, I wish they were boring. Then perhaps they wouldn't regard me as a terrible omen.

“Luna!” an acerbic voice exclaims. One of the elder's daughters, Rhea, is there. When people are around, her voice always sounds lovely. It's razor sharp now. "Remember the storage area. We don't want your squalor close to the banquet tables.

"Yes, Rhea," I answered quietly, with my eyes downcast.

At my bow, she smirks and moves closer so that only I can hear. "Curse girl, stay hidden tonight. Or perhaps, just for fun, the Alpha will cast you among the rogues.

Despite my cringe, I keep my head down. She chuckles, waves her hair, and vanishes into the hallway, where warmth and joy await everyone but me.

The storage room door creaks as if it's on its last legs as I push it open. Moth-eaten curtains, broken chairs, and old barrels. It smells of secrets and wet ground.

I put down my broom and collect the flour that has spilt on my knees. Something hard, like paper, brushes against my hand. Odd. Paper is never left lying around here.

I pull it loose. It is partially concealed beneath a crate. An ancient, damaged letter with mouse bites and yellow edges. Even though the writing has faded, I can still make out a word that gives me the chills.

Moonborn.

I mumble it. "Moonborn." The term has an aged taste. Risky.

"What does it signify?" The shadows in the dark room don't respond when I ask them.

A loud tap on the door interrupts my reading before I can continue. I hide the letter behind my apron as I leap to my feet.

"Luna! The party starts! Rhea loses her temper. "Avoid being noticed. Keep to the rear.

"Yes," I mumble one more. I have a constricted throat.

I hold the letter to my chest as she leaves. I feel compelled to conceal it effectively. So, before I sweep the flour into my bucket, I tuck it into the slack hem of my garment.

Silver flags and flickering candles glisten in the main hall. The Alpha Council will be present at the Moon Gathering tonight to bless the pack, reaffirm oaths, and display their flawless wolves.

Holding a broom like a badge of shame, I stand in the shadows next to the rear pillars. I see them come in, tall, powerful wolves in grey and black cloaks. Warriors with icy eyes and scars.

Except for one, I recognise every face.

He.

The entire hall changes as he passes through the doorway, as though the air itself bends before him. He has broad shoulders and a dark coat coated with wolf fur, making him taller than the others. A tiny scar above his eye is barely visible due to the black hair that falls over a pointed brow.

And his grey eyes, which pierce me like a knife. He notices me.

I look down at the ground. My heart collapses on its own. He's staring at me, but why?

Near me, someone says, "That's Alpha Rowan Blackthorn." The war hound of Nightfang Pack.

As Rowan approaches to welcome my Alpha, there is silence. He doesn't smile. He just nods without saying anything.

But he looks back at me. Only once. As if he is aware of something I am not.

The sound of Elder Mireya's voice reverberates across the room as I attempt to duck behind a column.

"We honour the Moon tonight," she adds in a slender but powerful voice. And the Moon returns the favour tonight.

Everybody bows their heads. Wishing I could disappear into the stone, I grip my broom.

Lifting her ancient staff, Elder Mireya adds, "There is a sign." "Tonight, a rare mate bond was revealed."

A gasp spreads like wildfire through the hall. Mate bond. Rare, strong — permanently ties two wolves together.

"Go forward, the Moon's selected one," Mireya commands.

Nobody moves.

Her pale eyes search the room before settling on me.

I go cold. I hold my breath. She raises an uneven finger. "Luna Belle." Step forward.

I hear laughter all around me. Some hiss, some scoff.

"Her?"

"The damned mutt?"

"Not possible."

My feet are self-moving. I emerge from behind the pillar, my heart thumping so violently that I fear it may explode. I keep my head down, but I can feel Rowan's eyes on my skin like a hurricane.

The elder, Mireya, lifts her stick. "And the match is found."

She gestures at Rowan with the staff.

I'm having trouble breathing. Shouts break out in the hall.

"Alpha Rowan? Her partner?

"Where she is, he will kill her!"

"She is doomed! This isn't possible!

Rowan remains unflinching. He remains still. I watch something break behind his eyes as he simply looks into mine. Anguish? Or rage? I'm not sure.

I part my lips. I'm at a loss for words. Like a ribbon wrapped tightly around my heart, I sense the connection, which is slight yet powerful, drawing me in his direction. To ask him to say something, anything—I want to run.

He takes a step forward. My breath catches.

"Alpha Rowan." With a voice trembling with hope, Elder Mireya speaks. "The Moon has selected—"

He gives her a stern look and interrupts. His eyes are fixed on mine as he raises his chin. He clenches his jaw.

"No."

Just one word. As sharp as a sword.

There is silence in the room. Outside, even the wind holds its breath.

Rowan takes a step forward. His fists clench at his sides, as I can see. I watch as his neck muscles tense up as if he were ingesting poison.

"You are rejected by me."

I feel as though I've been struck in the chest by his remarks. I stagger back. My vision becomes blurry. There's a gasp. Someone chuckles.

"No," I mutter, but nothing is heard.

He speaks louder now so that everyone can hear him: "I, Rowan Blackthorn, Alpha of Nightfang, reject the mate bond with Luna Belle."

Pain. White-hot. Where the moon-shaped birthmark is hidden, it burns my shoulder. It burns equally like ice and fire. My knees give out.

"She is cursed!"

"Observe her!"

“The Moon has rejected you!”

The roar is a blending of voices. I am unable to see. My legs tire. My palms scraped the hard floor as I struck the cold stone.

In the fuzz, I make out Rowan. Above me, his eyes are vacant, and his face is stony. I can't tell if they're shouting or whatever.

My mouth quivers. "Why?" I try to say. My voice breaks. I'm not heard.

My broom is kicked aside by a foot. Like poison honey, Rhea's voice hovers over me. "Now take a look at the curse girl."

My arms are grabbed by my hands. My cheek scrapes the cold stone as I'm pulled back. Laughter, profanity, and sympathy all combine to form an uncontrollable storm.

My shoulder continues to burn. My mind is racing.

All I can hear over the din is him — Rowan. His voice, icy and decisive.

"You are rejected by me."

I start to scream, but my vision is obscured by darkness. His face, facing away from me, is the last thing I see. The chant is the last sound I hear:

The words "cursed, cursed, cursed"

Then— nothing.