The Dragon's Lycan King

The taste of iron still lingered deep in my throat, a phantom proof that I had selfishly drained my own veins to save him. The heavy oak doors of the Terracotta Village grand hall were thrown wide open, letting in the cool, crisp mountain breeze, but the air inside remained suffocating, thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, expensive perfumes, and palpable anticipation. Tonight was the Luna Ceremony. Tonight, Marcus was supposed to fulfill the promise he had desperately whispered against my lips beneath the silver light of the full moon. I stood near the very front of the wooden dais, the sapphire blue off-the-shoulder dress clinging to every curve of my body, its ruffled neckline gently brushing against my collarbones. The delicate trim of golden floral patterns along my chest and upper arms shimmered brightly under the hundreds of flickering candles suspended from the ancient vaulted ceiling. Around my neck, the tight black choker sat like a brand, embellished with small yellow moons and suns, a quiet nod to my innate, inexplicable connection to the celestial bodies despite being entirely wolf-less. I caught my reflection in the polished silver of a ceremonial shield hung on the stone wall beside me. My warm, deep-toned skin was flushed with anticipation and the heat of the crowded room. My short, sleek black hair, styled in a precise chin-length bob with a slight middle part, framed my face perfectly. But it was my eyes that always drew the most attention, the feature that set me apart from every other female in the village. My eyes are large, expressive, and a vivid, startling red, framed by stark white eyelashes that gave me a sharp, almost otherworldly appearance. Marcus used to trace those white eyelashes in the dark and tell me I was his rare, unparalleled treasure. I believed him. I bled for him. When a brutal rogue attack nearly ripped his throat out last winter, I used my mother's ancient healing arts, pouring my own life essence into his fatal wounds until I collapsed, hovering near death myself for weeks. He held my hands, kissing the fresh scars on my palms, and promised me marriage. He promised me a throne beside his, vowing that my pure heart and unwavering strength made me the only Luna he would ever need. But as Marcus stepped onto the raised wooden dais tonight, his icy blue eyes stubbornly refused to meet mine. He looked magnificent, standing tall and broad-shouldered at six-foot-four, his powerful, muscular physique stretching the fine fabric of his dark ceremonial tunic. His olive-toned skin glowed in the candlelight, and the faint scar on his strong jawline, the very scar I had painstakingly stitched closed while he bled in my lap, rippled violently as he clenched his teeth. The natural shine of his short, dark brown hair caught the light, but the commanding authority he usually exuded seemed fractured, unusually defensive, and unnerved. He cleared his throat, the deep sound echoing through the suddenly silent, expectant hall. "My pack," Marcus began, his deep voice resonating off the ancient, blood-soaked stone walls. "We gather tonight beneath the shadow of the great mountain to honor our sacred traditions. A pack is only as strong as its Alpha, but an Alpha is only as enduring as his Luna. The times are changing, and to maintain our standing, we need a Luna who represents grace, purity, and the delicate beauty of our people. Someone who needs our protection, who inspires our mighty warriors to fight for her innocence." My heart plummeted into my stomach, instantly transforming into a cold, heavy stone. Protection? Delicate beauty? I was a healer. I was the one who fought beside him, who stood in the blood-soaked mud and held his terrified pack together when he was incapacitated. But before I could even process the violent warning bells ringing incessantly in my mind, a petite, slender figure stepped out from the heavy velvet shadows behind the Alpha's throne. Seraphina. She moved with a quiet, almost ethereal elegance, her five-foot-four lithe frame swaying gently as if the mere act of walking across the dais was a monumental, exhausting effort. Her flowing platinum-blonde hair cascaded in soft, perfect waves down her back, catching the ambient light and giving her a luminous, angelic glow that made the crowd sigh in adoration. She wore a soft, flowing chiffon gown in a muted pastel pink, the delicate lace emphasizing her apparent fragility. A simple, teardrop moonstone necklace rested against her pale collarbone. She looked like a stiff breeze would break her in half. But as she cast her eyes downward, brilliantly playing the shy, overwhelmed maiden, I saw the subtle, calculating twitch of her lips. The cunning, victorious gleam in her eyes before she veiled it behind long, fluttering lashes. She was faking it. I had always suspected it, but seeing her now, the truth was blinding. She had intentionally mimicked this delicate, fragile demeanor to lure Marcus into a false sense of security, appealing directly to his fragile male ego that demanded he be the sole savior in the relationship. "I present to you," Marcus declared loudly, extending a large, trembling hand to wrap around Seraphina's slender waist, "Seraphina. Your new Luna.