When the Luna Vanished Chapter 03

When the Luna Vanished Chapter 03

For a heartbeat, a collective pallor swept the room. Then, the frantic whispers began, rippling through the crowd.​

Isaac’s eyes burned crimson. “How dare anyone touch a hair on Layla’s head!” he snarled, the sound almost inhuman. “Find who did this. I want them rotting in the deepest dungeons we have!”​

The compass spun wildly before letting out a sharp ding. Its needle pointed southeast.​

The warlock hurried to speak, “It’s… it’s Luna Celeste’s chambers!”​

Silence slammed over the ballroom.​

Isaac’s gaze locked onto mine. A turmoil of emotions churned in their depths—anger, suspicion, and something that might have been a sliver of dawning horror.​

Layra Clark coughed up another mouthful of blood.​

“It’s my own sin,” she gasped, “nothing to do with her! Alpha, don’t listen to this fraud!”​

My birth mother, Luna Seraphina, clasped Layla’s hand as if it were a lifeline, her own eyes red-rimmed—but with fury, not tears.​

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but my birth father, Alpha Theodore, lunged forward and slapped me to the floor.​

“You wretched creature!” he roared, his voice trembling with a rage that felt personal. “You couldn’t even keep your own get alive, and now you dare raise your hand against the daughter of my heart? What venomous serpent did Silvermoon whelp to bring forth something as vile as you?”​

Tears spilled uncontrollably as the pain from my wounds flared.​

Issac ordered wolf warriors to search my chambers and the surrounding grounds.​

In the garden just outside my chambers, they unearthed it: a crudely stitched voodoo doll, Layla’s name carved into its chest. It was buried not ten paces from the four small memorial cairns I had built for my daughters.​

The warlock’s face lit up, “Yes! These are the instruments of dark magic!”​

But his smile faded quickly.​

“To heal Miss Layra completely,” he said grimly, “we must drive eighty-one silver nails into the caster’s body. Then we burn these relics to ashes—only then will the curse lift.”​

Hesitation flickered in Issac’s eyes, but Layra Clark’s whimpers pulled him back.​

“Seize Celeste Brown!” he shouted. “Carry out the punishment at once!”​

Watching his unwavering resolve, I couldn’t help but laugh.​

Once, Layra Clark had collapsed in pain after drinking tea I’d made, accusing me of poisoning her.​

I’d begged to drink the rest to prove my innocence.​

Issac had laughed and called me foolish.​

He’d said he knew Layra Clark was just jealous—so desperate for his love she’d resorted to tricks.​

He’d said I, though raised in a village, was pure of heart and could never do harm.​

He’d said he couldn’t give me love, but he’d always trust me.​

I’d even foolishly dreamed of staying with him forever because of those words.​

Now I saw how ridiculous I’d been.​

A silent, heaving laugh shook my frame, tears cutting tracks through the grime and powder on my face.​

In full view of the entire pack, I was dragged forward. Rough hands bound me, arms outstretched, to a crude wooden frame. A spectacle. Every last member of Stormborn had gathered to witness it.​

Wooden nails—the length of a pinky knuckle—lay before me. Issac frowned, a flicker of remorse crossing his face, “Must it be eighty-one?”​

Before the warlock could answer, I cut him off.​

“Issac, I’ll bear the nails,” I said hoarsely. “But my children are innocent—spare their memorials!”​

The Golden Witch had warned me: the key to my daughters’ reincarnation was preserving one token of each.​

Those graves were their last.​

But Issac waved a hand to dismiss me.​

A nail drove slowly into my flesh, piercing the tendons in my wrist and embedding itself in the wood.​

The sound of hammer blows rang in my ears. I dug my nails into my palms until they cracked and blood oozed, desperate to withstand the agony.​

My blood-curdling screams echoed through Stormborn Pack.​

Five hours later, or perhaps an eternity, the final nail was driven into the arch of my foot. What had once been a gown was now a sodden, crimson rag, plastered to my skin. Blood, dark and thick, dripped in a steady rhythm from my feet to form a small, grotesque puddle on the ground below.​

I was too weak to move—but every involuntary sway tore my flesh further against the nails, amplifying the pain.​

Then Layra Clark coughed up blood again, more violently than before.​

The warlock panicked, “Alpha Issac! The vengeful spirits sense their caster’s deterioration—they’re fighting back! If we don’t stop them, Miss Layra will die!!”​

In that moment, a terror colder and sharper than any nail lanced through me. I threw myself against my bonds with a strength born of pure desperation, caring nothing for the fresh torment as the nails sawed deeper into my ruined flesh.​

“Issac, you promised!” I screamed. “You said you’d spare them! I didn’t do this—I did nothing!”​

“I’m dying! Why would I harm anyone?”​

Issac’s face darkened, but Layra Clark fainted in his arms.​

In that instant, he abandoned our promise entirely.​

“Disrespectful even in death!” he roared. “Burn those abominations to ashes!”