Coming Back as Enemy's Luna

40. Tend

= Amara =

“I–I’m sorry, Alpha!”

The words shattered as they left him, raw and broken, like he was trying to hold together something that had already snapped.

The gamma I’d faced earlier—the one who had stood tall and defiant in the arena, chest out, eyes blazing with arrogance—was on his knees now. His palms pressed into the dirt, head bowed low, shoulders trembling with a shame so complete it almost hurt to watch. Every ounce of pride, every ounce of defiance that had marked him moments ago, was gone—stripped away in a heartbeat, leaving only a trembling, vulnerable figure in its wake.

I didn’t look at him.

Not because I didn’t care. I just didn’t need to.

My attention was elsewhere.

Mikael.

He stood a few steps away, still as a statue, spine straight, shoulders squared with the kind of poise that didn’t demand attention—it commanded it. The arena itself seemed to shrink around him, the noise of the crowd dampening to a cautious murmur. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to bare his fangs. The sheer weight of his presence spoke louder than any words ever could.

Authority rolled off him like heat from the sun, slow and inevitable, pressing down on every living thing in the space. It told the gamma, told the onlookers, told anyone foolish enough to doubt, exactly who held power here—and that they were not to question it. No one dared breathe too loudly. No one dared move.

“Miss Amara, let me see your other hand.”

The words were quiet, careful—like a delicate thread trying not to snap in the weight of the moment. I turned slowly, and there she was: the young girl standing beside me, eyes wide and anxious, her small hands trembling slightly as they hovered in front of me.

“I remember—you have a cut there too!” she said, voice catching on the edge of worry.

Her concern hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. I froze, studying her face: the crease between her brows, the way her fingers lingered in midair, as if touching me might make the pain worse. There was no bravado here, no bravely feigned courage. Just genuine worry, pure and unguarded.

And for a moment, the roar of the crowd, the clamor of the arena, the weight of every expectation—it all fell away. It was just the two of us, suspended in a strange quiet, as if the world itself had paused to let me feel it.

It startled me, how easily it startled me—how something so simple, so small, could make me realize how long it had been since anyone had truly cared enough to notice me.

The first had been the old woman, earlier, with her trembling hands and her quiet insistence that I didn’t need to help her. She’d refused, yet in that refusal, there had been a kind of fragile trust. And now… it was this girl. This girl, brave enough to speak when everyone else stayed silent, when the rest of the pack had chosen the safety of quiet.

The realization hit me unexpectedly. That there were—just a few, maybe barely more than one—who genuinely cared. It pressed against my chest like something delicate, almost breakable, but undeniable.

Hope.

Small. Cautious. But undeniably real.

I didn’t need a crowd. I didn’t need approval from every pair of eyes in the pack. One or two would be enough. Just enough to remind me that change didn’t arrive with sweeping proclamations or grand speeches. It came quietly, stubbornly, in the smallest of steps—almost imperceptible, but capable of becoming a foothold. Capable of being a beginning.

“Thank you, Caryl,” I murmured, my voice barely more than the exhale of a breath.

Her response was simple, yet it carried a weight I didn’t expect. A sad, knowing smile, soft and patient, the kind that said she understood more than words ever could. Then she moved closer, settling gently at my side. Her hands were steady as they worked, cleaning the wound with a care that felt reverent, precise—as if what she touched wasn’t broken at all, but somehow precious.

“I know I’ve said this a million times already,” Caryl murmured, her voice low and careful, each word deliberate as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. Her fingers moved over my arm with quiet precision, dabbing gently at the shallow scratch that still throbbed faintly beneath my skin. The sting made my muscles twitch, reflexively bracing, but I offered her a small, reassuring smile and shifted slightly, straightening my legs despite the dull ache spreading from my thighs down to my knees.

“Don’t worry about it, Caryl,” I said softly, my voice quieter than usual, almost meant for just her. “Protecting the members of Veyrath… it’s not a favor. It’s my responsibility. And I’ll do it with everything I have—no matter what.”

Her hands froze mid-motion.

She looked up at me then, really looked, eyes wide and shimmering, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. The way she stared made my chest tighten in a way I hadn’t expected—like the weight of my own words had landed on her more heavily than I’d thought it would. It wasn’t admiration or gratitude alone; it was reverence, the kind of look that made me pause and reconsider the power even a few honest words could hold.

The moment stretched, soft and fragile, until my smile softened, more genuine this time, the tension in my body easing just a little. There was an unspoken understanding in that glance—no need for more words. And for the first time in a long while, I felt the quiet satisfaction of knowing I had made a difference, even in something so small.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured after a pause, her fingers still moving carefully over the cut on my arm. She shook her head slightly, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Why is everyone so quick to judge you?”

I let out a slow, almost reluctant breath, watching it fog slightly in the cool air between us. My eyes drifted past her, out toward the open square beyond the workshop. There was Mikael, standing with arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always carried. The vendors were gathered nearby, murmuring among themselves, glancing toward the scene with curiosity and unease. And then there was the gamma, still kneeling on the cold stone, head bowed so low it seemed he was trying to disappear entirely. Questions had been fired at him, sharp and relentless, and yet he remained frozen, rigid with humiliation and fear.

Finally, I spoke, my voice low and deliberate. “Their reaction… makes sense.”

Her hands paused mid-motion. I could feel her attention shift fully toward me.

“To them,” I continued, eyes still tracing the scene, “I’ve always been the outsider. Worse than that… I’m an outcast. Not just from Veyrath, but from the enemy of Veyrath. Someone they’ve been trained to fear. To despise.”

I let the words hang there, heavy between us, before turning my gaze back to her.

“Tell me something, Caryl,” I said, my voice quieter now, almost challenging. “If that gamma—right there, kneeling in the dirt—had been forgiven by your father and by the vendors… if they’d let him keep abusing his authority, taking security payments, letting fear and corruption run unchecked… would you really be okay with that?”

Her hands stilled entirely, hovering over the wound as though the question had cut deeper than the blade ever could.

“Of course not!” she exclaimed, the words sharp and sudden.

Her movement was abrupt, and the cotton she held pressed too firmly against my wound. A sharp hiss escaped me, and I caught the immediate change in her expression—her face went pale, eyes widening in horror.

“I-I’m so sorry—Miss Amara, I didn’t mean—” she stumbled over her words, panic rising in her voice like a tide she couldn’t control.

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, cutting her off before she could spiral further. I waved a hand, dismissing it gently, forcing the tension down before it could grow. “Really. It’s fine.”

I held her gaze, letting my eyes stay soft but steady, trying to anchor her. There was no blame in them, just the truth I couldn’t find the words for yet.

“Now,” I continued, my voice low and deliberate, “imagine that’s exactly how the rest of the pack sees me.”

For a long moment, she froze. Then slowly, the tension left her shoulders, the fight draining out of her posture like air leaking from a balloon. Understanding spread across her features, subtle but undeniable. Her lips pressed together, eyes flicking down for just a second before meeting mine again. She finally understood—the weight I carried, the isolation I endured, the way every harsh glance or whisper landed.

She nodded, quietly, a gesture small but loaded with acknowledgment. And in that quiet, unspoken moment, I knew she truly grasped what I had been trying to tell her all along.

“In the eyes of most, I’m still the enemy,” I said, my voice low but steady, the words carrying more weight than I had intended. “I come from Gravemire, and… well, our packs have been at odds for as long as anyone can remember. Generations of rivalry, grudges that never seemed to die.”

A soft, weary sigh escaped me as my gaze flicked toward Mikael and the gamma he had been scolding. The room felt thick with tension, almost tangible, pressing against my chest like a physical weight. Every quiet breath, every small shuffle of feet seemed amplified, and I could feel the unsaid thoughts lingering in the air, heavy and expectant.

“I get it,” I continued, careful, deliberate, trying to choose each word so it didn’t sound defensive. “I understand why people would hold prejudice against me. And… honestly, I’d probably feel the same if the roles were reversed.”

I paused, letting the thought settle for a heartbeat before going on. “If I were still part of Gravemire, if our Alpha had pardoned someone—someone who didn’t belong, someone he accepted for reasons he never fully explained—I wouldn’t trust her either. Maybe I’d even resent her. It’s natural, isn’t it? To guard what’s ours, to question outsiders, to feel suspicion before understanding. That’s what I’m asking you to remember about me.”

I lifted my gaze to Caryl, letting my eyes meet his, carrying a quiet kind of determination—one that wasn’t hardened or defensive, but tempered with honesty, with something softer and real.

“That’s why…” I began, my voice low, deliberate, letting each word settle carefully between us. “The only thing I can do…” I paused, feeling the weight of the truth pressing against my chest, “is prove to everyone that I am not the person they think I am. That I am not the version of me they’ve painted in fear, in whispers, in rumor.”

It wasn’t about winning anyone’s approval—not really. It wasn’t about changing their minds to make them like me, or to earn their trust on their terms.

It was about showing them the truth. Pure, unfiltered, and undeniable. And maybe, just maybe, if I could show enough of it, the truth might finally outweigh all the histories, all the stories, all the lies that had been built long before I even existed.

I exhaled slowly, letting the moment hang there, fragile and weighty all at once.