Lahat ng Kabanata ng No Longer His Invisible Luna: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 9

The morning after, I woke with the dawn, my fingers already reaching for the half-packed trunk beneath the bed. The leather smelled of hope and lavender—of home.Downstairs, the packhouse was silent. Shawn had risen early, as he often did when important matters weighed upon him. I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing the morning meal with a lightness in my chest I had not felt in years. The eggs cracked open like promises. The bread warmed the air with golden anticipation.Then, the chime.Shawn’s footsteps thundered from his study—a speed, an urgency he never displayed for me. The front door swung open, and her scent preceded her voice. Night-blooming jasmine and glacial ice, cutting through the domestic musk of my kitchen like a blade through silk."Marga! You should have sent your scent-mark ahead!" Shawn’s voice transformed—sudden, radiant, alive."I wanted to surprise you, dear Alpha." That laugh, bright and untroubled as a mountain spring. "Life demands its little joys, does i

The morning of departure arrived wrapped in mist. I stood at the threshold of the packhouse, holding Lydia’s traveling cloak with hands that did not tremble. I had learned, in the dark hours between discovery and dawn, how to wear obedience like a second skin."Mother, you’re creasing the silk." Lydia snatched the garment from my grasp, her nose wrinkling in that gesture she had learned from Marga. I released the fabric. "Forgive me."Shawn emerged from the study, his ceremonial leathers gleaming, every buckle polished to a mirror sheen by my own hands. He did not look at me. Marga swept through the doorway, pristine, luminous, her white-blonde hair catching the weak morning light like spun starlight. She took Lydia’s hand naturally, the way a mother takes her daughter’s, and Lydia leaned into her side with a familiarity that lacerated."There, there, little swan," Marga cooed, adjusting Lydia’s collar with tender precision. "We shall see such wonders. The crystalline waters, the gar

The rhythm of the Pearlcoast Pack enveloped me like a second skin. I woke to the gold of sunlight through jasmine vines, to the distant, melodious calls of household staff moving through morning rituals with a grace I had forgotten.On the third morning, I wandered into my father’s study—a chamber of parchment and authority. He sat at the great desk, his silvered head bowed over territorial accounts, a furrow cutting deep between his brows. The ledgers lay open like wounded things, their columns uneven, figures bleeding into chaos."These trade agreements with the Eastern Territories," I said, my voice tentative. "They are disadvantageous. The tariffs were negotiated three winters ago, but the market has shifted. You are losing revenue on every shipment of healing herbs."My father’s head lifted. His amber eyes narrowed. He pushed the ledger toward me, a silent challenge.I traced the columns. The numbers spoke to me in a language I had learned in the Ravenshade packhouse, where I had

The days following their expulsion from the great hall brought a silence to the Pearlcoast Pack that felt almost sacred. I moved through the corridors of my father's house—my house now, in all but formal title—with a lightness I had not known in twelve winters. The wounds on my knuckles had healed to pale silver scars. My pheromones, fully awakened, filled my chambers with the scent of wild roses and highland iron, no longer the stale musk of exhaustion but the aroma of sovereignty.Shawn and his retinue had been permitted to establish a camp in the outer valley, beyond the wards of the inner sanctum. I had not forbidden them food or shelter, but I had forbidden them my presence. They waited, as petitioners wait, for an audience that I had not yet decided to grant.On the third morning of their exile, Marga broke.I observed the scene from the high balcony. Marga had approached the eastern gate at dawn, her white-blonde hair elaborately arranged, her jasmine perfume thick enough to cho