I Was His Luna—Until He Buried Me Alive

Corvin Blackthorn did not cry at my funeral.

He stood at the head of the Moon Circle, dressed in ceremonial black, his posture straight, his expression appropriately solemn. To anyone watching, he looked like an Alpha bearing loss with dignity. The kind of man the pack could rally behind. The kind of leader the Council respected.

Only those who knew him well might have noticed how carefully controlled his stillness was.

The Moon Burial Rite was held at dusk, when the light balanced between day and night. Wolves gathered in silence, their breaths fogging in the cooling air as the elders traced runes into the earth around the empty grave. An unmarked coffin rested above the pit, sealed and immaculate, filled with nothing but folded cloth and ashes from the ritual fire.

Symbolic.

Efficient.

Seraphyne stood at Corvin’s side, her fingers threaded through his arm, her presence unmistakable. The Moonlight caught the crescent mark at her collarbone, making it glow faintly. The pack saw it. Felt it. They straightened in unison, instinct bending them toward her like iron filings toward a magnet.

This is how it should have been, Corvin told himself.

Restored. Balanced. Correct.

Elder Marius began the rite, his voice low and steady as he recited the words that returned a fallen wolf to the land. “She who walked among us now walks beyond,” he intoned. “May the Moon judge her truth.”

Corvin’s jaw tightened.

Judge her truth.

The words scraped against something in his chest he didn’t want to examine.

Elion shifted beside Seraphyne, tugging at her sleeve. “Why is everyone sad?” he whispered, his voice carrying farther than intended in the quiet circle.

Seraphyne knelt, smoothing the boy’s hair. “Because someone left,” she said gently. “And they’re saying goodbye.”

Elion frowned. “Did she go to the Moon?”

Seraphyne hesitated—just a fraction. Then she smiled. “Yes.”

Corvin’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and warning. She met his eyes calmly, her own wolf steady beneath her skin.

The elders lowered the coffin into the earth. Soil followed, heavy and final. Wolves bowed their heads. A few lifted their muzzles and howled—long, mournful cries that echoed across the valley.

Corvin didn’t join them.

He stared at the grave, an odd pressure building behind his ribs.

She should have broken, he thought.

Elowen had always been composed, controlled, too careful with her emotions. She’d accepted every slight with grace, every delay with patience. Even at the end, she hadn’t begged. She hadn’t screamed.

She’d looked at him like he was already a stranger.

The rite ended. Wolves dispersed slowly, murmuring to one another, already shifting into conversations about new beginnings. Succession. Territory. The future.

Seraphyne squeezed Corvin’s arm. “It’s done,” she said softly.

He nodded. “It is.”

That night, the estate felt louder than it ever had.

Music filled the great hall, low and rhythmic, a celebration disguised as remembrance. Wine flowed freely. Laughter rose without guilt. The pack had shed an inconvenient skin and was eager to enjoy the relief.

Corvin stood near the fire, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched, watching the movement of bodies through the room. Seraphyne moved easily among them, receiving nods of respect, soft touches of reverence. She belonged here in a way Elowen never truly had.

And yet—

When Corvin’s gaze drifted toward the doorway that led to the east wing, his chest tightened unexpectedly.

The greenhouse came to mind.

The way Elowen used to disappear there when pack politics grew too sharp, returning calmer, more focused. He hadn’t understood it at the time. Plants had seemed like such a small thing to cling to.

Now the space was empty. Stripped. Silent.

Good, he told himself. Necessary.

“You’re distracted,” Seraphyne said, appearing at his side with two glasses of wine. She handed one to him, her fingers brushing his briefly.

“Just tired,” he replied.

She studied him, her gaze shrewd. “You don’t look relieved.”

“I am,” he said automatically.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Then drink.”

He did, downing the wine in one swallow. It burned going down, settling heavily in his stomach.

Later, when the hall had thinned and Elion had been taken to bed by the nursemaids, Seraphyne pulled Corvin toward the Alpha’s chambers.

“This is our night,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. “The pack has its Luna back.”

He followed her, because that was what was expected.

The bond between them hummed, warm and insistent, the Moon’s approval unmistakable. And yet, as Seraphyne’s hands slid over his skin, his mind betrayed him with unwanted memories.

Elowen standing in the council chamber, refusing to bow.

Elowen’s voice, steady as she accused him of lies.

Elowen walking into the forest without shoes, her back straight even as he condemned her.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the images away.

“Corvin,” Seraphyne murmured, sensing the shift. “Stay with me.”

“I am,” he said, more harshly than intended.

She stilled, pulling back slightly to look at him. “You’re thinking about her.”

The accusation hung between them.

“She’s dead,” he said flatly.

Seraphyne searched his face for a long moment, then nodded. “Good,” she said. “Then let her be buried.”

She leaned in again, reclaiming his attention, and this time he didn’t resist.

But later, long after Seraphyne’s breathing evened out beside him, Corvin lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

The Moonlight crept across the room, pale and uninvited.

For the first time since the rite, he felt it—sharp and sudden.

A pull.

Not the bond with Seraphyne. That was steady, expected.

This was something else.

A faint, distant ache, like a thread pulled taut somewhere deep inside him, vibrating with a tension he couldn’t explain.

He pressed a hand to his chest, scowling into the darkness.

“Get it together,” he muttered.

Outside, far beyond Blackthorn land, the Moon burned bright and watchful.

And somewhere in the mountains, a woman the pack had buried breathed in that same silver light—very much alive.