Hunting My Outcast Luna

ONE: Zarya

The pre-dawn air is crisp, the scent of damp earth mingling with pine and the faint metallic tang of old blood. The ground beneath my feet is well-worn, a testament to years of training—training that was never meant for me. Each movement is precise despite the steady ache in my limbs, the bruises and exhaustion lingering from yesterday’s labor. But I embrace the pain. It reminds me that I am still here. Still fighting.

This clearing, hidden behind the Bloodmoon Pack’s barracks, is the only place where I am not just a servant or a punching bag. Since the new King took power, the Alpha and Pack Games have been abolished, and the training grounds are no longer used. The once-bustling yard where warriors honed their skills now sits empty, overgrown with weeds and forgotten by all but a few. The loss of those traditions left a void, one that has made the packs weaker, more divided. Here, beneath the fading moon, I am something more. The trees form a natural barrier around the training area, their towering forms casting long shadows over the packed dirt. Broken branches and deep grooves in the earth mark years of combat practice, though none of it was ever meant for me. My fights happen elsewhere—inside the cage, where the stakes are higher, the audience eager for blood. But here, with Kellan, it’s different. This place is mine, even if only for an hour before dawn.

I duck under a swift jab, twisting at the last second to counter with a strike of my own. My fist collides with solid muscle, sending a dull shock of pain up my arm. It’s like hitting a damn tree. I shook out my knuckles, biting back a grimace.

“You’re getting faster,” my sparring partner remarks, rolling his shoulders. “But you still telegraph your moves.”

He’s older than me by a few years, but the difference between us feels like decades—calm, confident, disciplined. Kellan. The only person in this pack who doesn’t treat me like I’m worthless than dirt. If anyone found out he was training me, we’d both pay for it. Likely with our lives.

Kellan is, objectively, good-looking. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, sharp-jawed—the kind of features that would make most she-wolves take notice. But not me. He’s my only friend, the only person I’ve ever had, or at least the only one I remember. That’s all he’ll ever be. He reminds me I’m not completely alone in this world, and that is enough. But no matter how much I train, no matter how strong I become, it won’t change the fact that I am wolf-less. The one thing that truly defines a werewolf, the thing that grants them strength, purpose, and belonging—I don’t have it. And I never will.

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t built like a damn boulder,” I shot back, shifting into a defensive stance.

A low chuckle rumbles from him. “Strength isn’t everything. Read your opponent. Look for weaknesses.”

I exhale, forcing myself to focus—not just on his stance, but on the subtle shifts in his weight, the way his right shoulder tenses slightly before he moves. He’s testing me. He always does. I feint left, then sweep low, aiming for his legs. This time, my foot connects, and he staggers back a step.

A grin tugs at my lips—until he lunges, using my own momentum against me, flipping me onto my back. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, leaving me sprawled in the dirt, staring up at the dim morning sky.

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, swallowing back frustration as the cold ground seeps into my skin.

“Better,” he admits, standing over me. “But predictable. You react too quickly—sometimes waiting just a moment longer will tell you exactly how your opponent fights.”

Kellan huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s something in his expression—something fleeting, almost contemplative. His hand twitches at his side before he reaches out to help me up. His grip lingers for a second too long. When I pull away, his fingers flex slightly before he drops his hand, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“Maybe then I’ll finally get my answer,” he mutters under his breath.

I frown. “What?”

He shakes his head, forcing a smirk. “Nothing.”

Something about the way he says it doesn’t sit right. I open my mouth to press him, but the moment is already gone.

I take a slow breath, steadying my pulse. “I should get back before someone notices I’m gone,” I murmur, stretching out my sore limbs.

Kellan’s expression hardens slightly, but he nods. “Be careful.”

I give him a brief smirk, though there’s no real humor behind it, before turning on my heel and slipping through the trees. As I disappear into the shadows, I don’t see the way Kellan watches me go, his jaw tight, his fists clenching at his sides.

The barracks are quiet at this hour, the first rays of morning still a distant thought on the horizon.

Bloodmoon Pack’s lands stretch far beyond the fortress-like compound of the main house. While its warriors thrive on brute strength, its true purpose is farming. Vast fields and orchards make up most of its territory, supplying food to other packs. It should be a thriving place, but the crops have been struggling. The water supply has been dwindling, the land growing less fertile with each passing season. Something is terribly wrong.

The packhouse looms ahead, an imposing structure of dark stone and towering columns. It used to be well-maintained under Alpha Darius, but now cracks line the outer walls, and the once-glowing lanterns flicker dimly, barely holding back the gloom. The warriors who used to train openly in the yard now move in hushed, cautious groups, their eyes darting toward the Alpha’s quarters as if expecting trouble at any moment. The fear is thick in the air, unspoken but suffocating.

I remember asking Kellan if life here in this world was the same in every pack, if people were too scared to leave, pinned against each other in brutal fights for survival. He told me no—that it was a much better place when the Royals were here. The packs weren’t just struggling to hold themselves together—they thrived. There was peace, stability, and order. The magic that coursed through this land. He told me that without the Royals, everything began to crumble, and the False King’s rule only made it worse.

I push the thought away as I near the edge of the main grounds. Just a few more steps—

“Where the hell have you been?”

I freeze for half a second before turning to face the enforcer, Maddox, standing near the packhouse entrance, arms crossed, a smug grin stretched across his face. He looks entertained, like he enjoys dragging me from the few moments of peace I steal in between surviving.

“Alpha wants to see you,” he calls, eyes locked on me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his boot. “Try not to waste his time.”

Cold dread curls in my stomach. Nothing good ever comes from being summoned by Alpha Grant. Ever since he killed Alpha Darius, it’s been his life’s mission to make mine a living hell. It doesn’t help that Luna Misty, Darius’s mate, stood by and let it happen. She loves to remind me of my mother, calling her a w***e who took what didn’t belong to her. She likes to tell me that Darius was my father, but I know that isn’t true. I don’t look like him. I have no wolf. No alpha blood should produce someone like me.

And the pack hates me for it.

Kellan is the only one who doesn’t. He’s one of the guards assigned to protect the most important thing Bloodmoon possesses—the enchanted vampire dagger. Every pack in Lykaeria is entrusted with guarding something powerful, something meant to keep the balance. Kellan once told me that if anyone ever managed to claim all of these powerful artifacts, the world as we know it would collapse. The balance would shatter, and the magic that holds this land together would spiral into chaos.

I don’t know how much of that is true. But I know Grant would kill to stay in the King’s favor. He is a snake, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he kissed the Alpha King’s ass. And that means keeping control of what Bloodmoon protects.

I exhale through my nose, forcing my expression to remain neutral. With one last glance toward the forest, I adjusted my stance and stepped up to the heavy doors of the packhouse, pressing my palm against the worn wood. My breath is steady, but my heart pounds as I push them open, stepping inside and bracing myself for whatever fresh hell awaits me.

It always is.