The Forsaken Luna's Rise To The Crown

Elenore Guy POV:

The carriage rolled to a stop on the gravel drive of the Vance estate. Through the window, I saw a river of silks and jewels flowing into the brightly lit manor. The same scene, the same people, the same night.

I took a breath, the cool leather of my glove tightening around my palm. My fingers brushed against the hilt of the silver letter opener hidden in my sleeve. A small, cold comfort.

"Ready, Miss?" Fiona asked, her eyes were wide with awe.

"More than ready," I murmured.

Fiona helped me down from the carriage. As my boots touched the ground, a ripple of silence followed by a wave of whispers spread through the nearby guests. It wasn't my beauty that caught their attention—it was the dress. The severe, midnight-blue riding gown stood out like a drop of ink in a glass of champagne.

"Is that a riding habit?"

"How inappropriate for a Gala..."

"Duke Guy spoils her too much. She has no sense of propriety."

I ignored them. Let them talk. Their low expectations were a weapon I intended to use against them. Lifting my chin, I walked into the grand ballroom, my steps measured and confident.

The room was a dizzying kaleidoscope of light and sound, but my eyes found her instantly.

Britta Vance.

She stood in the center of a fawning circle of young nobles, holding court like the queen she so desperately wanted to be. She was draped in a garish gold gown, a diamond necklace glittering at her throat, her face a mask of saccharine sweetness.

I didn't approach. Not yet. I procured a glass of sparkling cider from a passing servant and retreated to a shadowed alcove, a predator seeking the high ground. From here, I could see everything.

My gaze swept the room, my mind a cold ledger, ticking off names and allegiances from a future that only I remembered. Lord Harrington, who would be the first to cancel his trade agreements with my father. Lady Evangeline, who would publicly weep at my mother's trial before seizing their lands. They were all here, sipping champagne, their faces alight with false cheer.

Then I heard it. That voice, like honey laced with poison.

"It's just so tragic," Britta was saying to her friends, her voice pitched for performance. She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. "Poor, dear Elenore. She has the Alpha bloodline, of course, and that face... but nothing else. Duke Guy has sheltered her so completely, I doubt she could even name the five founding packs."

Her cousin, Gwendolyn Vance, added with a sly smile, "Now, Britta, be kind. Perhaps Elenore simply finds such things... beneath her." The words were a defense, but the tone was pure venom.

A ripple of suppressed laughter went through their group.

Beside me, Fiona's hands clenched into fists, her face pale with rage. "Miss, that's—"

I placed a calming hand on her arm, stopping her. My own face was a placid mask, but inside, a cold satisfaction bloomed. The snake was slithering right into my trap.

"Patience, Fiona," I whispered, my eyes fixed on Britta. "The bait has been cast. Now we wait for the fish to bite."

Fiona looked at me, utterly bewildered.

I knew Britta's plan. She was setting the stage. Later, during the traditional "Lore Challenge," she would publicly challenge me, expecting me to either refuse and prove my point, or accept and humiliate myself. In my first life, her plan had worked perfectly.

This time, the script would be mine.

Britta's gaze flickered in my direction. Her eyes, small and hard, met mine across the crowded room. A smirk of triumph played on her lips.

I raised my glass in a slow, deliberate toast. I let a small, knowing smile touch my own lips, a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

The smirk on Britta's face faltered. A flicker of confusion, then annoyance, crossed her features. She had expected tears, or anger, or a hasty retreat. She had not expected... this. This calm, this blatant challenge.

Good. Let her feel uncertain. Let her wonder.

From a balcony above, I felt a new set of eyes on me. Heavier. Colder. I didn't need to look to know who it was. Prince Damien. He was observing the drama below like a hawk watching mice in a field, his gaze shifting between me and Britta, weighing their worth.

I kept my eyes locked on Britta, letting her see the full, unnerving force of my attention. Then I turned to Fiona.

"Find me some of those little moon-berry tarts, would you?" I said, my voice light. "It's going to be a long night. I'll need my strength."

I took a final sip of my cider, the sweet bubbles a stark contrast to the bitter taste of vengeance in my mouth. The plan was set. Every move, every word, every possible outcome calculated.

Britta wanted to make me a fool on her stage.

I was going to burn her stage to the ground.