The Anniversary the Luna Walked Away

“Did I hear that correctly?” Zevran Silverhaze’s deep voice rose in disbelief. “You value me enough to hand over your council shares?”

When I stayed silent, he let out a low laugh.

“Then I’ll accept them. But in exchange, I have a gift for you, Amarise. How about signing a lifelong pact with me?”

“You always loved wandering beyond pack borders, didn’t you? I’ve invested in a grand inter-pack travel chronicle. I’m still missing the right voice to lead it.”

I stiffened. “But I’m no longer young and my image—”

“It’s never too late,” Zevran cut in calmly. “Fifty-five is nothing. The Amarise I remember was the brightest Moon-Voice to rise from the High Academies.”

He didn’t ask what I had endured. His tone left no chamber for refusal, as if fate itself had already aligned.

“Forget Blackspire. Look forward. I’ll come for you when I return from this journey.”

He was still just as forceful as he had been in his youth.

After a long pause, I exhaled. “Alright. I accept, Zevran.”

Yes. My life was only beginning. This time, I would live it for myself.

Emric did not return to the pack manor that night.

At dawn, he sent a message ordering me to bring breakfast to the council tower. “Prepare two portions. We have company.”

For thirty years, he had refused anyone else’s cooking. Fevered or exhausted, I still rose before dawn to prepare his meals.

An hour later, I pushed open the doors of his office—and froze.

Corinne stood there in a pale-gold jacket and fitted skirt. At her feet lay my favorite painting, torn to pieces, scattered across the stone floor.

Where it once hung now stood a new sculpture.

My mind went blank. Then anger surged.

“Who did this?” I shouted. “That was my painting!”

Corinne widened her eyes and covered her mouth lightly. “Oh no. I thought it was useless clutter—it was so unpleasant to look at. I replaced it with my own work. I’ll give you another someday.”

That painting was the only piece Emric and I had ever completed together, during a journey we once called our most precious memory.

Emric, flipping through documents, didn’t even look at me. He took the thermal container from my hands.

“No need. That thing had no value. Now that Corinne’s piece is here, this office finally has taste.”

He brushed past me toward her, careless enough to knock me aside. I fell hard.

Broken frame nails pierced my palm. Blood spilled instantly, pain sharp enough to steal my breath.

As I struggled to rise, my gaze caught something in the corner—soft pink undergarments, casually discarded.

My chest tightened as if crushed by an unseen claw.

But Emric saw none of it. Not the blood. Not the truth.

When Corinne looked up at him with teary eyes and said softly, “Emric, there were nut seeds in the oat stew. I’m severely allergic. I almost died,” his face darkened at once.

Without hesitation, he dumped the meal I had spent an hour preparing into the trash.

Then he glanced at me on the floor with cold contempt.

“Stop acting weak, Amarise. Get up and clean that trash. And don’t ever put nut seeds in food again.”

With that, he led Corinne away to enjoy a luxury breakfast in the upper district.

My body shook. My palm throbbed. Hot tears finally spilled.

That evening, at Corinne’s celebration feast, I saw him holding her hand, refusing to let her carry even a small pouch.

“Hands that shape art should be treated like a goddess’s.”

Yet I had spent half my life serving him like a low-ranking pack servant—scrubbing, cooking, enduring—no one ever asking if I hurt.

At home, I dabbed salve onto my wound and began sorting through every gift Emric had ever given me.

Each festival, he bought things in pairs. I once thought it was thoughtfulness, until I saw the truth through a hidden crystal-feed. Everything he gave me, he gave her as well.

Not a single gift was meant only for me.

He simply could not let her lack anything.

By the time I finished, the sun was already sinking. I didn’t even fix my hair before rushing to fetch my grandson, Nolan, from the academy.

As Nolan walked out with his classmates, a few cubs laughed and pointed.

“Hey, Nolan, is that your grandma?”

His face flushed. Panic flashed in his eyes.

“No! She’s our pack servant!”

Then he held up a magazine image of Corinne, radiant and refined. “This is my grandma. She’s a famous sculptor!”

My ears rang.

This was the cub I had raised with my own hands.

While my son and his mate managed pack affairs with Emric, I had fed him, healed him and sung him to sleep. And now he denied me.

To him, I was shame.

In the carriage, Nolan kept his head down, staring at his shoes or the passing road.

This time, I said nothing.

No scolding. No correction.

Only silence—and the quiet mockery of the woman I had become.

When we reached my son’s home, Nolan whispered, kicking the ground, “Grandma… aren’t you angry?”

I looked at him calmly. “Nolan, do you want a different grandmother?”

“If you do,” I said softly, “I’ll help you get one.”