Hunting My Outcast Luna

Seven

For a moment, I’m disoriented, still caught between the dream and reality. My breathing is harsh, my hands clenched in the sheets. But I’m no longer in that sacred place. I’m in my room, the dim glow of moonlight seeping through the window.

A sharp pounding at my door jolts me fully awake.

Knock. Knock.

The sound is impatient, almost aggressive.

I groan, running a hand over my face.

Knock. Knock.

“I’m coming,” I snap, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I barely register my own exhaustion as I stalk toward the door. Just before I open it, a familiar scent hits me.

Jasmine.

Great.

I sigh, already knowing what this is about. Bracing myself, I open the door.

She stands there, her blue eyes gleaming with confidence, lips curled into a knowing smile. She thinks she knows what I want.

“Jasmine.” I keep my voice firm. “I told you. This is done.”

Her smile falters, but only for a second. “Alpha, I thought I could… cheer you up. Help you relieve some stress.”

Before I can stop her, she unfastens the coat she’s wearing, letting it slide from her shoulders.

She’s bare beneath it, standing in the dim candlelight like she expects me to reach for her.

Instead, I level her with a cold stare. “Go. Now.”

Her lips part slightly, shock flashing across her face.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose before adding, “That’s an order.”

I shut the door before she can argue.

For a long moment, I stand there, listening to her frustrated huff before she finally walks away.

Exhaling, I run a hand through my hair and glance toward the window.

And that dream…

The crisp night air carries the scent of damp earth and pine as I step out of the packhouse, my boots crunching lightly against the frost-kissed ground. The moon hangs above us, not yet full, but bright enough to cast long shadows through the trees. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless, sensing the shift in the air.

Alex and Xzavier are already waiting near the tree line, their wolves standing alert, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. A handful of warriors flank them, their forms shifting impatiently from foot to foot.

Xzavier shifts first, his transformation fluid and effortless. His sleek silver coat glows faintly under the moonlight, the fur along his spine slightly darker, giving him a steel-like appearance. His Beta mark—three jagged lines—runs along his left shoulder, standing out starkly against his fur. He stretches, shaking out his coat before giving me a knowing look. Like we’d ever be careless.

Alex follows suit, his wolf form emerging in a flash of deep russet and black. His Beta marking mirrors Xzavier’s but is carved into his right shoulder. His eyes, a piercing golden-amber, flick between the warriors, assessing them. Even in wolf form, he’s watchful, always anticipating the next move.

The rest of the warriors shift next, their wolves varying in shades of brown, gray, and black. Their rank markings—a single claw-like s***h over their ribs—gleam faintly against their coats. Each mark represents their status within the pack, a reminder of their duty.

I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly. “We run in wolf form. Stay tight, stay alert.” My gaze sweeps over them, making sure they understand. “This is a short trip, but that doesn’t mean we get careless. Bellamy doesn’t know we are coming.”

I don’t hesitate. My wolf bursts free in a surge of power, bones snapping, reforming, my vision sharpening as I land on all fours. Midnight-black fur coats my body, and I shake out the tension from my limbs. My Alpha mark—a crescent moon with clawed slashes extending from its curve—rests just beneath my left eye, a stark contrast against the darkness of my coat.

With a flick of my tail, I take off.

The others follow instantly, their footfalls light against the underbrush. The forest blurs past us, towering evergreens stretching high into the night. The wind rushes through my fur, the rhythmic pounding of paws against dirt steady and in sync.

We cut northeast, weaving through the dense terrain. It’s an easy run, barely two hours at our pace, but my mind refuses to settle. The dream from earlier still lingers, shadowing my thoughts.

The memory of that black wolf. Of the sacred land. Of the witches’ voices whispering warnings through time.

Something is coming.

And I don’t think we’re ready.

As Bellamy’s borders come into view, I push those thoughts aside. Answers. That’s why I’m here. If anyone has them, it’s him.

I slow as we near the Evernight border, my warriors following suit. The trees thin just enough to reveal the Watchtower—an old structure, long abandoned by the Royals, now manned by Bellamy’s sentinels.

A figure steps forward from the shadows. Even in the dim light, I recognize him instantly.

Alpha Bellamy.

His wolf form is massive, his dark coat nearly blending into the night. Unlike the others, his Alpha mark is thicker, deeper—the symbol of Evernight carved into his fur just above his heart. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. He only watches.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer before shifting back. The transformation is smooth, effortless, and when he rises, his clothes are still in place—a silent testament to the witches’ enchantments.

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he studies me, his sharp blue eyes assessing, calculating.

I shift back as well, standing tall as the cold air bites at my skin.

I exchange a glance with Xzavier before stepping forward. “Rogues? This close to Evernight?”

Bellamy nods once. “Too close. And they’re not moving like scattered loners anymore. They’re organized.” His jaw tightens. “That’s not the worst of it.”

He turns, already striding toward the fortress-like structure in the distance. “The scrolls have been writing non-stop,” he continues. “They’ve revealed something—something I don’t think any of us are ready for.”

A chill settles over me, but I follow without hesitation.

Bellamy wastes no time leading us through the gates, past towering stone walls and the watchful eyes of Evernight’s sentinels. The air inside the stronghold is thick with the scent of old parchment, burning firewood, and a faint trace of incense—likely remnants of the coven’s past rituals.

The walls of his packhouse are carved from dark stone, reinforced with ancient runes that flicker faintly under the candlelight. This place isn’t just a home—it’s a fortress, steeped in magic and history. I can almost feel the weight of it pressing against my skin as we move through the halls.

Bellamy’s office is just as imposing. The chamber is lined with towering bookshelves, each filled with scrolls and leather-bound tomes that look older than the packs themselves. A heavy wooden desk sits near the center, cluttered with scattered parchments and an open ink pot, a single quill resting beside it. The walls are adorned with old banners—some tattered, some still vibrant with the sigils of Evernight’s past. A large fireplace crackles in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor.

Bellamy turns to face me the moment the door shuts behind us. His expression is tight, his dark brows furrowed in concern.

“I’m glad you came,” he admits, his voice low, almost tense. He rakes a hand through his dark hair, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been too nervous to leave. The scrolls have been writing non-stop, and what they’re saying is… unsettling.”

I take in the mess of papers on his desk, the scattered notes written in sharp, hurried strokes. Bellamy has always been composed, but there’s a tightness in his stance, a weight pressing down on him that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

Xzavier moves to lean against one of the bookshelves, arms crossed. His sharp eyes flick toward Bellamy. “What do they say?”

Bellamy hesitates. He grips the edges of his desk, fingers tightening against the wood before shaking his head. “We’ll get to that. First—have you noticed anything strange lately?” His gaze lands on mine, searching.

A muscle in my jaw ticks. Strange barely begins to cover it. The dream. The wolf I’ve never seen before. The whispers in a language I shouldn’t understand. And now, the eerie way the air itself feels heavier, as if something unseen is pressing down on us.

I don’t answer immediately, but I don’t have to. Bellamy sees the shift in my expression, and that alone is confirmation enough.

“I thought so,” he mutters. He moves toward the desk, brushing aside loose parchment to uncover an aged, crumbling scroll. The edges are yellowed, the ink dark as if it had been freshly written. But that’s impossible. This text should have been sealed in history—unchanging. And yet…

“The scrolls always record history as it happens,” Bellamy says. “But now they’re writing things that haven’t happened yet. And worse—they’re out of order.”

I frown. “That’s never happened before.”

“No. It hasn’t.” Bellamy taps the parchment. “Some lines predict events before they happen, while others contradict things we know are true. Fate is being rewritten, Ronan. Something—someone—is disrupting the natural order.”

My stomach tightens. “The False King.”

Bellamy’s expression darkens. “It’s more than just him. The scrolls mention the coming eclipse—the one he fears. But the phrasing is strange. It doesn’t say ‘the Royal will rise.’ It says, ‘the lost one stirs.’”

I go still.

“The lost one?” I echo.