The Runaway Luna

PEARL'S POV

The night air bites at my skin like icy fingers as I sprint, barefoot, into the woods that consume the Pandara Kingdom, like a beast that only spits you out when you're nothing but bones. My breath comes in ragged gasps that taste metallic. Every time my heel slams into a hidden stone, a fresh cut opens, but the pain hardly matters because discomfort has become an old friend, an almost comforting reminder that I'm still alive.

I duck under low-hanging branches that whip against my cheek, scratching my skin raw. Bits of leaves and dirt cling to the blood on my arms and legs. I must look like a half-dead creature crawling through the underbrush; maybe that's what I am.

My feet remember the paths better than my mind does; the same woods where my father used to threaten me, saying, "Run, Pearl, if you want. The forest will eat you before you've taken ten steps." Maybe he was right. Maybe it will. But I'd rather be swallowed by the trees than watch those stone walls close in on me again.

The wind howls through the branches above, whispering things my mother used to say: "You are not weak, my Star." You are strong. You represent the impending storm they are unaware of.

She'd say that while she brushed my hair beside the fireplace, her rough hands were so gentle they made my eyes sting. She was the only barrier between me and them: my father, my sister, and the Elders who believed a wolf like me was a waste of bloodline.

And they hated her for it. They wanted her gone so they could do whatever they wanted with me. They framed her, spreading filthy rumors-saying she was sleeping with rogues outside the pack borders, that she poisoned the old Beta's wine, and that she cursed our bloodline to give birth to weaklings like me.

When they came for her, I screamed and screamed, but Mom didn't. It was like she expected it. She didn't even beg; she just looked at me through the flames and whispered, "Run."

The chill of the present jolts me back. The slap of wet leaves on my chin, the sting of a fresh scratch across my collarbone, the dull ache in my knees from when I fell trying to scale the outer wall-it all keeps me moving, reminding me I'm not dead yet.

Then, I think of Bisca...

A sob escapes my chest before I can swallow it. It tears through my ribs, raw and ugly. I stumble, catch myself against the trunk of an old oak, and suck in the icy air until my lungs burn.

I shut my eyes and see her face. Bisca is the only person who has never called me worthless. She was the one who pushed Kaela aside when she cornered me in the kitchen or sneaked me an extra piece of meat when she thought no one was watching.

This morning, in the