The Wolfless Luna's Dragon Heart

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Chapter 2 The Awakening Bond

Valencia’s POV

The drums begin, a deep thrumming that seems to rise from the earth itself. The ceremony is starting. The priests emerge from behind the pillars, moving in ways that make my skin crawl even though I can't quite say why.

The High Priest wears robes the color of dried blood. In his hands, he carries a bronze censer, releasing smoke that shouldn't exist—smoke the color of old blood, thick and wrong, crawling through the air.

The stench hits me even through the gag. Rotting meat mixed with something chemical, something that burns the inside of my nostrils and makes my eyes water.

The High Priest's face is hidden beneath his hood, but I can see his hands—too pale, with fingers that seem just slightly too long. When he raises one of those hands, the crowd immediately falls silent and takes several steps backward.

The smoke from the censer grows thicker, and through my tears, I swear I can see shapes forming in it. Faces that appear and disappear. Reaching hands. Open mouths screaming silently. Maybe it's the lack of food and water making me hallucinate.

The High Priest reaches into his robes and draws out a blade. He begins to speak in a language I don't recognize. The drums adjust their rhythm to match his chanting, and the smoke from the censer starts moving with purpose, circling us.

To my left, Mira has gone rigid against her pillar, eyes wide with terror behind her tears. The fear that I thought had died in me stirs weakly in my chest.

The High Priest approaches the first pillar, where the youngest of us is tied—a girl who can't be more than fourteen. Her whole body shakes as he raises the curved blade. The chanting grows louder, and the smoke thickens around her until she's barely visible.

The blade descends.

The girl's muffled scream cuts through the air, but it's not the quick death I expected. The High Priest makes shallow cuts along her arms, letting blood run down to pool at the base of the pillar. The stone seems to drink it eagerly, those ancient symbols beginning to glow with a faint, sickly light.

He moves to the second girl, then the third. Each cut precise, ritualistic, designed to bleed but not to kill.

My turn is coming. Seven girls away. Six. Five.

The fear grows stronger now, breaking through the numbness. Not fear of dying—I made my peace with that—but fear of dying slowly, of being fuel for something evil.

Four. Three. Two.

Mira whimpers beside me as the High Priest approaches her. The blade rises.

One.

Mira's blood is the warmest thing I've felt in days as some of it spatters onto my bare arm. She sags against her bonds, still breathing but barely conscious.

Then he turns to me.

Logan’s POV

I stand among the crowd of Alphas, Lunas, and Betas, my expression carefully neutral as I survey the ancient stone circle.

Beside me, Elton shifts his weight, barely suppressing what looks like anticipation rather than grief. His Beta, Zephyr, stands at attention with that perpetual smirk he thinks is subtle. Luna Quinn dabs at completely dry eyes with a silk handkerchief.

A pack of fools playing at grief, I think coldly.

"Such a tragedy," Elton announces to no one in particular, his voice dripping with false solemnity. "Marcus was a great Alpha. Taken by bears, of all things. Who could have predicted such a fate?"

Everyone with half a brain knows Marcus's death had nothing to do with bears. The man had more enemies than the kingdom has trees. But here we all stand, pretending to mourn, because that's what politics demands.

The drums begin their deep, rhythmic thrumming. The ceremony is starting.

"Barbaric tradition," Soren murmurs beside me, though his tone suggests mild disapproval rather than true outrage. My older brother has always been better at the diplomatic dance, at saying the right things without actually feeling them.

Elton's gaze wanders to the sacrifices, and his expression shifts to something cruder. "That one's not bad," he comments, nodding toward one of the pillars. "Pretty face, shame about the weight. Could have been useful before all this."

"Show some respect," Soren says quietly, but it sounds more like a reminder of social etiquette.

I follow Elton's gaze, more out of curiosity about what kind of woman would catch his tasteless attention than any real interest. My eyes land on a girl bound to one of the center pillars.

She's different from the others. While her fellow captives writhe and weep against their bonds, she stands utterly still, her face turned toward the grey winter sky with an expression of profound calm. Even emaciated and filthy, there's something striking about her.

My wolf, Knox erupts in my mind. He becomes restless, pacing and growling with an urgency I've never felt from him before.

"What's wrong with you?" I demand silently.

"Her scent... it's different. Unique." Knox's mental voice is sharp with certainty. "I think she might be our mate."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My entire body goes rigid. For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

"That's impossible," I snap back. "I can't sense any wolf in her. She's clearly wolfless."

"I know it doesn't make sense," Knox admits, his confusion bleeding through our connection. "But this is the first time I've ever sensed a mate bond. The scent doesn't lie, Logan."

I force myself to focus. A wolfless girl as my mate? It violates everything I understand about how the Moon Goddess works. Wolfless are considered defective, broken, inferior. How could one possibly be destined for an Alpha?

But Knox has never lied to me. Never been wrong about his instincts.

I study her more carefully now, searching for some explanation. She's young, maybe nineteen or twenty, though starvation has carved years into her features. Purple eyes—I've never seen that color before. Brown hair matted with mud and blood.

She's not performing bravery or trying to appear strong. She simply... doesn't care anymore. There's a emptiness in her gaze that suggests she's been broken that death holds no terror.

Movement on the raised platform draws my attention. Wiley, Mistmarsh's new Alpha, steps forward to deliver his eulogy.

"Today we honor Alpha Marcus," Wiley begins, his voice carrying across the ceremonial grounds. "A great leader who defended this kingdom fifteen years ago when Aldermere invaded. Who stood firm against our enemies and protected our way of life."

Fury rises in my chest, hot and sudden.

Marcus wasn't a war hero. He was a butcher. I remember the aftermath of what they called the "Battle of Moonfall Ridge"—though battle suggests both sides had a chance to fight. What Marcus did was systematic slaughter. Every member of that pack, from warriors to children, wiped out in a single night.

And now he's being praised for it.

"We maintain the alliance Marcus forged," Wiley continues. "With Alpha Elton's pack standing strong beside us, we ensure peace and prosperity for our territories."

Elton's pack borders my territory on the right. Mistmarsh on the left. This alliance is clearly designed to box me in, to create a unified front against Soren’s pack.

If they want war, I'll gladly oblige.

My hand tightens on my sword hilt as I watch the guards roughly handle the bound girls. Every instinct screams at me to end them. The intensity of my rage surprises me—I barely know this girl, don't even know her name, and yet the thought of anyone hurting her fills me with murderous intent.

"Stop thinking and act!" Knox snarls in my mind, his agitation bleeding through our connection. "Save her. Now. Before it's too late."

His presence pushes against my consciousness, trying to seize control of my body. I can feel him clawing at the edges of my will, desperate to break free and tear through anyone standing between us and her.

"Calm down," I command silently, my mental voice as cold as ice. "We're not rushing in blindly."

"She's going to die!" Knox's fury explodes in my head. "Our mate is going to die while you stand here calculating like she's just another political piece!"

"I said, calm down." I reinforce my control, pushing him back. "Saving her isn't difficult. I can do it easily. But first, I want to watch her a bit longer."

"Watch her? WATCH HER?" Knox's disbelief is almost palpable. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I want to see if her calm is real," I explain, my eyes never leaving her face.

"You're insane," Knox growls, but I can feel his reluctant acceptance. He knows I won't be swayed by emotion alone.

Soren's hand lands on my shoulder. "Brother," he says quietly. "You seem distracted. Is something wrong?"

My older brother has always been perceptive, skilled at reading people and navigating political waters. He's father's favorite—the eldest, most suitable heir. I feel no particular hostility toward him, but no warmth either. He's simply another player in the endless game of pack politics.

"Nothing," I say coldly, forcing my expression back to neutrality.

But my eyes keep returning to her.

Soren steps forward now, delivering the official condolences. His words are diplomatic, appropriate, meaningless. He praises Marcus's "courage" and "sacrifice," speaking of unity and strength.

I barely hear him. All my attention is locked on the High Priest approaching the first pillar, blade gleaming in his pale hands.

Knox snarls in my mind. "We have to stop this."

"I know."

I find myself unwilling to let her die in this grotesque ceremony. I'm curious about her. Intrigued in a way I haven't been about anything in years. My hand moves to my sword as I begin walking toward the altar.

"Logan?" Soren's voice is low, questioning. "What are you—"

BOOM!

A tremendous explosion shattered the night.

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