The Alpha Who Let His Luna Die

My arm burned, but I barely felt it.

The sting from the scattered coals was sharp and immediate, yet it faded quickly—overshadowed by something deeper, heavier. I returned to my room alone, each step measured, each breath forced. Pride was a habit. Pain, an old companion.

I poured alcohol over the burn without flinching. The hiss against my skin was loud in the silence, biting hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. I gripped the edge of the dresser until my knuckles whitened, waiting for the pain to crest and pass.

It did.

Unlike everything else.

Once, Kaelrion would have panicked over a mark like this. A shallow cut, a bruise from training—he used to react as if the world were ending. I remembered him snapping orders at healers, pacing like a caged wolf, refusing to leave my side until I smiled just to calm him down.

Now he hadn’t even noticed.

I bound my arm and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing until the fire in the hearth burned low. Tears came then—not dramatic, not loud. They slid down quietly and soaked into the sleeve of my nightdress, stinging when they touched raw skin.

That night, I slept poorly.

And the days that followed proved something I hadn’t wanted to admit.

Vaelis didn’t need to fight me for my place.

She already had it.

She clung to Kaelrion constantly, as if afraid the pack might remember who stood beside him first. Wherever he went, she followed. Wherever he stopped, she leaned into him, smiling softly, eyes flicking toward me just long enough to make sure I noticed.

At meals, she pouted playfully and nudged his arm.

“Feed me,” she said once, tilting her head. “You know it tastes better when you do.”

I sat across from them, quietly pushing food around my plate while he lifted a piece of meat and brought it to her lips. She laughed, pleased, and leaned closer.

On the couch in the evenings, she curled into his side as if she belonged there, fingers fisted in his shirt.

“I hate loud noises,” she murmured during a movie. “Hold me tighter.”

He did.

Each time, she looked at me afterward, smile innocent.

“You don’t mind, right, Eirlys? You promised.”

“I don’t mind,” I said.

I wasn’t sure when that sentence stopped being a lie.

My body, however, didn’t bother pretending.

The Moon weighed heavier each night. My limbs felt weak, my senses dulled. Shifting became painful, incomplete. I could feel my wolf curling inward, conserving what little strength she had left.

Vaelis was supposed to give her blood soon.

I stopped counting the days.

One afternoon, after a particularly bad spell of dizziness, I stood before the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. My skin looked too pale. My eyes—once sharp, once proud—were dim.

That was when I made a decision.

I needed a photograph.

Not for identification. Not for records.

For my funeral.

The photographer blinked when I told him.

“For… what?”

“My funeral,” I repeated calmly. “I want it simple. Just one.”

His hands shook slightly as he adjusted the lens. I stood straight, shoulders back, and forced a small smile. The flash went off, briefly blinding.

That would be the one they put on the altar.

Alive. Whole. Still me.

When I returned to collect the print, laughter drifted in from the front of the shop.

I froze.

That voice—low, familiar, careless.

And hers—light, pleased.

They entered arm in arm, moving easily, as if this were a routine errand for a couple.

“Eirlys?” Vaelis said, feigning surprise. “What a coincidence.”

I slipped the photo into my pocket. “Just needed an ID picture.”

She leaned into Kaelrion, smiling. “Photo albums are important for couples. We took some earlier this week.”

Kaelrion glanced at me, almost apologetic. “She wanted memories.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

She dragged me toward the counter anyway. “Help us choose,” she said sweetly. “You always had better taste.”

The screen lit up.

Image after image filled the monitor—sunset light, clasped hands, his arm around her waist, her head tipped back in laughter. They looked… happy.

My chest tightened painfully.

“Which one looks happiest?” she asked.

Before I could answer, chaos erupted.

A loud crash echoed as a shelf behind us gave way, metal groaning before collapsing. Kaelrion reacted instantly—lunging forward, wrapping Vaelis in his arms, turning his body to shield her.

I wasn’t so lucky.

A jagged edge struck my shoulder as I was knocked sideways. Pain exploded, hot and wet. I screamed as I hit the floor, blood soaking through my sleeve.

“Kaelrion!” Vaelis cried. “It hurts!”

He scooped her up without hesitation, panic etched across his face. “We need the healer. Now.”

Our eyes met for half a second.

Then he turned away and carried her out.

I dragged myself up and staggered to the healer alone.

The old man frowned as he stitched the wound. “Why didn’t anyone bring you sooner?”

“I didn’t have anyone,” I said.

Later that night, Kaelrion finally returned. He froze when he saw the bandage.

“What happened?” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were busy,” I replied calmly.

He reached for my hand. “I didn’t mean to leave you. She was crying—I thought—”

“You did the right thing,” I interrupted. “She needed you.”

Relief washed over his face. “I’ll stay tonight.”

The moment almost fooled me.

Then his phone rang.

Her name.

“I’ll be right there,” he said instantly.

And just like that, he was gone again.

I curled into myself after he left, breathing unevenly.

This wasn’t love.

It was erosion.

That night, my phone buzzed.

Vaelis’s voice slipped through, amused and cruel.

“Did you know Kaelrion risked his life for me today? He did something dangerous just because I asked.”

I stared at the dark window. “Take care of him,” I said. “He’s yours.”

Silence.

I ended the call.

Then I dialed another number—one I’d memorized weeks ago.

“Hello,” a calm voice answered.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m calling about burial arrangements. Section B. I wanted to ask if—”

The front door slammed open.

“Eirlys!”

Kaelrion stood there, pale, bandaged, furious and frightened all at once.

“What were you doing on the phone?” he demanded.

I forced a smile. “Helping a neighbor.”

He sagged with relief, pain dragging at his posture. “Motor crash,” he muttered.

I guided him back to the hospital, signed papers, tucked the blanket around him like I used to.

As he slept, I whispered so softly he’d never hear it:

“This is the last time I worry about you.”

And for the first time since the Moon began taking pieces of me away, I felt calm.

Because ashes don’t cry.

They wait.