Crowned by Deception
The royal transport was not a vehicle; it was a cage lined with velvet. I sat on cushioned leather that felt softer than any blanket I had ever owned, yet my body remained rigid, vibrating with panic. I was surrounded by the scent of King Demetrius's guard, all iron, leather, and discipline, a scent that should have offered comfort, but instead felt like the suffocating presence of jailers.
I had been dragged from filth to luxury in the space of an hour, yet the terror remained consistent. The rejection in the field—that cold, violent shove, still echoed in the space between my ribs, a hollow ache that was worse than the initial severance by Damon. The King was my fate, and my fate wanted me gone.
He needs the path. He needs the secret. That is the only reason my heart is still beating.
The Iron Citadel, when we arrived, was an architectural insult to nature. It wasn't built into the mountain; it rose out of it, a skyscraper that scraped the sky. It reeked of power and wealth.
I was escorted inside, my body moving on autopilot. Every Lycan I passed—guards, servants, lesser nobles, stared at my mud-crusted boots and kennel-stained tunic with revulsion. My scars, usually hidden, felt like signs advertising my worthlessness.
The halls we passed through were quiet. The very air was thick with the scent of high-grade perfume, fine, aged wine, and the sharp, untainted Alpha authority of the ruling class. It made my head swim; it was a world too overwhelming for a simple omega, let alone a rejected one.
I was led into the main throne room, and the silence that fell was instant and absolute.
The court was a glittering sea of Lycan nobility, arrayed in jewel-toned silks and intricate armor. Their collective shock at my appearance, the filthy omega in their sacred space, hit me like a physical blow, a massive wave of scorn and hostility.
I immediately noticed the woman who looked like their Queen already: Selene Voss. Her midnight hair was coiled high, and her gown was a shimmering column of emerald silk. Her eyes, sharp with ambition, immediately settled on my face, radiating pure, poisonous contempt. I've heard whispers of her and none seem pleasant.
She didn't wait for permission. She swept forward, her silks rustling like a gathering storm. "Your Majesty, what is the meaning of this spectacle? Who is this… feral thing you have dragged into your court? She is fouling the very air we breathe."
King Demetrius was already on the dais, sitting on a throne of dark, intricate metal that looked less like furniture and more like a captured beast. His cold, iced-honey gaze flicked dismissively to Selene.
"Silence," he commanded, his voice a deep, smooth baritone that somehow contained the destructive force of a natural disaster. He did not look at me. He looked at the court. "This gathering is not for consultation, but for consequence."
Then they brought him in.
Alpha Damon Vane.
My breath hitched. He was bound at the wrists, stumbling, his silk shirt ripped and his face covered with bruises. He was terrified, reduced to the whimpering, pathetic creature he had always been beneath the layers of inherited power. He was dragged to the center of the dais, right near my feet.
The sight of him brought a twisted knot of emotion to my chest—part bitter satisfaction, part absolute disgust that this weak man had controlled my life for so long.
Demetrius stared down at Damon, his power radiating out like heat. "Alpha Damon Vane. You managed to lose the borderlands to the Hunters through incompetence, you squandered the lives of your pack through arrogance, and you failed to notice the value of the very earth you claimed to own. You are a cancer to the Lycan cause."
Damon tried to scramble backward, his eyes wide and wet. "Your Majesty, please! I—I beg you! I will raise a new pack, I will fight, only spare my rank!"
"Silence!" Demetrius's voice was like a whip-crack. "Your greatest sin was not your incompetence in battle. It was your judgment on your own bloodline."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, forcing every noble to listen.
"Four years ago, you rejected your mate, Esmeralda Lopez. A true Mate Bond, broken because you prioritized petty, fragile ego over the Moon Goddess's decree. You deemed her trash. That rejection wounded your pack's standing and, more importantly, it offended my lineage. We do not tolerate such casual disregard for destiny."
Damon, utterly bewildered, looked from Demetrius to me, then back again. He saw my dirt and my bruises, and he still looked utterly disgusted that his fate was tied to mine.
Demetrius leaned forward on his throne. "Effective immediately, the Black Hills territory is dissolved. Your Alpha status is revoked. You are stripped of your rank and title, and you will live out your days as a landless, title-less rogue, shunned by every pack in the realm."
Damon screamed—a high-pitched, pathetic sound that was immediately silenced by a sharp elbow to the throat from one of the King's guards. He collapsed into terrified tears, utterly broken.
I watched him go, feeling the cold justice of the King's act. It was complete revenge, but it was hollow. I hadn't earned it; Demetrius had simply swept away the garbage that cluttered his path.
Demetrius stood, his movement commanding instant silence. He was done with the past. Now he turned his attention to the court, and most terrifyingly, to me.
"I have dealt with weakness. Now, I secure the future."
He descended the dais steps toward me, his movements fluid and devastating. The powerful scent that had made me reel in the field was now overwhelming. My entire body tensed, preparing for a blow, or perhaps a final, cruel rejection.
He stopped directly in front of me, forcing me to tilt my chin back. He reached out, and this time, he was gentle, yet utterly possessive. He unfastened the grime-covered rags around my neck, letting them fall to the marble floor.
He replaced them with a heavy, glittering silver chain—a traditional Lycan torque, a symbol of royalty, authority, and ownership. It was cold against my exposed skin, an immediate weight of responsibility I was not meant to carry.
His voice boomed across the court, echoing off the high stone ceilings. His eyes were fixed on the horrified face of Selene Voss.
"The war is changing. The Lycan line demands not just strength, but destiny. For too long, we have ignored the ancient prophecies. The line of the Silver-Eyed has been in hiding, believed to be cursed. But I know their true worth."
The crowd erupted in frantic, terrified whispers. Silver-Eyed? That name was forbidden, associated with madness and King-killers.
Demetrius clamped his large, cold hand firmly onto my exposed shoulder, a gesture of absolute, terrifying possession.
"This is Esmeralda Lopez. The blood of the Silver-Eyed Rogues flows through her veins. I claim her knowledge, and I secure her destiny." He paused, letting the shock reach every corner of the court. His jaw was set like a vice, fighting some internal battle.
"I declare her the True Luna of this Kingdom."
The force of the declaration hit me harder than any physical strike. True Luna. Me. The discarded, worthless thing. It was the most shocking and the most devastating lie he could have told. He had used the darkest prophecy in Lycan history to justify making me his political puppet.
He lowered his head, his face inches from mine, his scent overwhelming. He lifted my trembling hand, coated with the dry blood residue of Old Man Silas, and brought it to his lips.
The kiss was the final, devastating piece of the ritual. It was not passionate; it was cold, dry, and utterly devoid of warmth. I looked into his eyes, searching for even a flicker of the devastating heat from the mate bond flare in the field.
There was nothing. Just calculating ice.
He's fighting the bond. He's fighting me.
As the court erupted into chaos—gasps, shouts, and terrified murmurs—the truth settled over me like a winding sheet.
This title is not a crown, I thought, the devastating realization slamming into me. It's a leash. He didn't make me his Luna to save me. He made me his Luna to keep his greatest enemy tethered to his side, waiting for the perfect mome
nt to execute me once my purpose is served.