Your Luna's Dead Tonight
In the shadowed realms ruled by Lycan packs, where bloodlines are sacred and fated bonds are law, Nyma Ravengale has always been the golden daughter of Alpha Cedric—cherished, protected, and destined for a future as radiant as the moon itself. But when the Luna Ceremony, a sacred rite meant to honor her ascension into adulthood, reveals a truth that defies the pack’s ancient laws, Nyma’s world fractures.
She is pregnant. And the child growing inside her is no product of a fated bond.
The revelation ignites a storm of shame and fury Her mate, Lycan Prince Adrian, denounces her before the pack, refusing to claim a child he insists cannot be his. Whispers of betrayal spread like wildfire, poisoning the very air she breathes.
Then comes her father’s decree—an ultimatum as cold as the northern winds.
Kill the bastard child and reclaim her place in the pack… or be cast out as a rogue, stripped of her title, her home, her name.
But Nyma’s heart rebels. The child—conceived in a single, forbidden night of passion with a mysterious outsider—is more than a mistake. It is her defiance. Her last act of freedom. To destroy it would be to surrender her soul to the pack’s cold judgment. To keep it would mean facing the wilderness alone, hunted by those who once called her family.
Now, as the pack gathers outside, their voices rising in a merciless chant, Nyma stands at the crossroads of fate.
Tonight, she is no longer the golden daughter, the cherished Luna. Tonight, she dies in their eyes. Tonight, her pack buries her.
But the moon does not mourn. It has always feasted on dead things.
And what the moon devours, it resurrects.
And as the wind howls through the night, carrying their chants like a funeral hymn, one truth remains unshaken: She will rise. Not as the woman you loved—soft-handed, honey-voiced, stitching your wounds with moonlight. No. The moon spits back what it can’t digest.
Not as the Luna you cherished…
Not as the woman you swore to protect…
Your Luna’s dead tonight.
The one that'll claw out of the grave with teeth made of your regrets, hair braided from the nooses you hung your lies on. Her eyes? Two black holes where the moon stuffed your secrets. She’ll smell the blood you swore you’d never spill, trace the betrayal you etched into the bark of the sacred oak.
And when she opens her mouth to sing?
It won’t be a dirge. It’ll be a reckoning, sharp enough to split the night open.
You’ll beg for the silence of her death.
But the moon’s still hungry.
And dead girls don’t stay dead.
They stay angry!
