Reborn as the Lycan Queen: Luna of fate ruin

My fingers, trembling and pale, rose to my throat. I pressed them against the soft, warm skin, searching for the jagged rent of the blade.

There was nothing but smooth, unblemished porcelain. But the phantom sting lingered—a cold, oily sensation that felt as though the obsidian were still buried in my windpipe.

I could still taste the copper of my own blood; I could still feel the sickening sensation of my life force draining into the temple floor.

The transition was too jarring. One moment, I was a discarded corpse in a sacrificial pit, listening to the Mother Moon’s terrifying, celestial decree; the next, I was back in the plush, suffocating luxury of my girlhood.

My senses, sharpened by the trauma of death and the raw magic of the rebirth, were dialed to a deafening pitch.

The chirping of the birds in the manor gardens didn't sound like a melody; it sounded like a chorus of screams. The scent of the lilies on my nightstand was no longer sweet—it was the smell of my own funeral.

A soft, rhythmic knock at the door made me flinch so violently I nearly knocked over my perfume bottles.

"Aria, darling? Are you awake? It’s your big day."

The voice hit me like a physical blow. Malvera.

In my past life—the life that ended less than an hour ago in my mind—that voice had been my anchor. It was the voice that had whispered platitudes to me after my mother’s "mysterious" illness took her.

It was the voice that had taught me how to be a "proper" Luna: quiet, submissive, and invisible. Now, stripped of the veil of my own naivety, it sounded like the dry hiss of a viper moving through dead leaves.

The door creaked open, and Malvera stepped in. She was younger here, her face less lined by the years of stress and the dark rituals I now knew she practiced in the basement of the Moon Temple.

She wore a dress of pale lilac, looking every bit the graceful, grieving widow turned supportive stepmother.

In her hands, she carried a silver tray with a single, steaming cup of porcelain.

"You look pale, child," she said, her eyes scanning my face.

For the first time in my existence, I saw her clearly. She wasn't looking at me with maternal concern; she was looking at me with the clinical hunger of a farmer assessing a head of cattle before market.

She was checking the "vessel" to ensure it was still intact enough to serve its purpose.

"You must be nervous," she continued, her voice dripping with fake honey.

"The morning of the wedding is always the hardest. Drink your tea. It will settle your nerves before the ceremony begins."

She set the tray down on the vanity, right next to the shattered fragments of my reflection.

The steam rose from the cup in elegant, swirling curls, carrying the familiar, soothing scent of lavender. But beneath that floral mask, my heightened senses picked up the truth. A bitter, metallic tang that made the back of my throat itch.

Wolfsbane.

The realization was a freezing bucket of water over my soul. It wasn't enough to kill—killing me would have been messy and politically inconvenient back then. No, this was a maintenance dose.

Just enough to keep my internal wolf in a state of permanent lethargy. Just enough to suppress the "lunar spark" that would have revealed me as the true Alpha heir.

She had been hobbling me for years, turning me into a "hollow shell" so she could eventually replace me with Ruth.

"Thank you, Mother," I said.

My voice sounded foreign to my ears. It was too calm, stripped of the desperate, pleasing trill I used to employ. It was hollow, echoing the cold void I had just returned from.

"Drink up," she urged, her fingers twitching as she pushed the cup closer to my hand. "We have a very long day ahead of us. Asha is already downstairs, looking quite dashing, I must say.

The Elders are already beginning to gather at the temple. We mustn't keep destiny waiting."

I picked up the cup.

The fine china felt fragile enough to crush in my fist. My hand shook, but not from the wedding-day jitters she expected. It was the raw, vibrating effort of not hurling the boiling liquid directly into her eyes and watching the skin blister.

I brought the cup to my lips, letting the steam dampen my skin, feeling the poison attempt to invade my pores.

"I think I’ll save it for after I’ve dressed," I said, my eyes meeting hers in the reflection of the one surviving pane of the mirror.

I forced a small, tight smile—the kind of smile a wolf gives before it bites. "I don't want to risk spilling anything on the lace. It would be an ill omen to walk down the aisle with a stain on my heart, wouldn't it?"

Malvera’s eyes narrowed for a split second. It was a microscopic shift, a flash of genuine, jagged impatience that she usually hid behind her mask of serenity.

She wasn't used to me delaying. She wasn't used to me having a will of my own.

"Aria, really," she laughed, though the sound didn't reach her eyes. "A few sips won't hurt. You're trembling. You need the medicine."

"I need to be clear-headed," I countered, setting the cup back on the tray with a definitive clink. "For Asha. I want to remember every moment of today. Every... single... detail."

She smoothed her features over with that practiced, fake smile. "Of course. You always were such a romantic. Don't be long, then. I’ll send the maids up in ten minutes to help you into the gown."

She turned and swept out of the room, her violet silk robes whispering against the floor like the scales of a snake. As soon as the heavy oak door clicked shut and the sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, I didn't hesitate.

I grabbed the cup and dumped the contents into a potted fern sitting on the windowsill. I watched, breathless, as the vibrant green leaves began to shrivel and blacken within seconds.

The wolfsbane was concentrated. She had increased the dosage for the wedding day. She wanted me practically catatonic at the altar—a silent, smiling doll for Asha to claim.

She wasn't just my stepmother. She wasn't just a cold woman. She was my executioner, and she had been killing me slowly for a decade.

I turned back to the mirror, looking at the cracks that splintered my image. In one shard, I saw my eye—wide and terrified. In another, I saw my mouth—set in a line of grim determination.

I reached out and picked up a piece of the shattered glass. It was sharp, capable of drawing blood. I didn't feel like the "Ultimate Luna" of the prophecies. I didn't feel like the "kind" girl who fed the poor. I felt like a storm that had been bottled up for too long.

Asha was downstairs. My "fated" mate. The man who would eventually stand by and watch me bleed out in a pit while he touched my sister's cheek. Today, he expected a prize.

He expected a submissive wife who would hand him the keys to the Moon Shadow Pack.

"You want a coronation, Asha?" I whispered to the empty, lavender-scented room. I felt the cold, dark fire the Goddess had promised me beginning to stir in my belly, melting the ice of the wolfsbane. "I'll give you one.

But you're going to find that the crown fits a lot differently when the Queen has already seen her own ghost."

I stood up, walking toward the heavy, white lace wedding dress hanging on the wardrobe. It looked like a shroud.

I wouldn't be wearing it.