From Broken Luna to Queen

The fluorescent lights in the clinic buzzed overhead like angry wasps, casting harsh shadows across the sterile white walls. I sat on the examination table, my bare feet dangling like a child's, while Healer Marcus shuffled through papers with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.

"Well?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. After weeks of feeling like my wolf was slipping away, like some vital part of me was dissolving into nothing, I needed answers. Any answers.

Marcus cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on the clipboard instead of meeting mine. "I'm afraid the results are... conclusive, Luna Anya."

Luna. He still called me that, even though everyone knew Esme had taken my place in everything but name. The title felt like a mockery now.

"Your wolf's spirit has deteriorated significantly," he continued, his voice clinical and detached. "The readings show less than five percent remaining. This condition—Fading Spirit—it's terminal."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. "How long?"

"Weeks. Maybe a month if you're fortunate." He finally looked up, and for a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? Pity? It was gone before I could identify it. "I'm sorry. There's nothing more we can do."

I nodded numbly, sliding off the table on unsteady legs. The world felt tilted, like I was walking through water. Dying. I was dying, and I would never know what it felt like to be truly loved. Never feel the warmth of a mate's genuine affection or hear my wolf purr with contentment.

The walk back to the servants' quarters felt endless. Other pack members stepped aside as I passed, some with pity in their eyes, others with barely concealed relief. The broken Luna, finally fading away. How convenient for everyone.

My room was tucked away in the basement of the pack house—a small, damp space that smelled of mildew and neglect. But it was mine, and more importantly, it was where Palmer waited.

"Mama!" My four-year-old son launched himself at me the moment I opened the door, his small arms wrapping around my waist with fierce determination. His dark hair was messy from his afternoon nap, and his bright green eyes—so much like mine—sparkled with innocent joy.

"Hey, baby." I sank to my knees, pulling him close and breathing in his sweet scent. He smelled like sunshine and cookies from the kitchen where he'd probably charmed the omega cooks into giving him treats. "Did you have a good day?"

"I drew you a picture!" He wiggled free and ran to the small table where his crayons were scattered. "Look, it's us! You and me and daddy, but daddy's really far away because he's always working."

My heart clenched as I studied the crayon drawing. Three stick figures stood in a line—Palmer and me close together, holding hands, while Tanner's figure was indeed drawn on the far side of the paper, separated by what looked like a mountain range.