Chapter 10 Cracks in the Crown
By the fourth week, Selene understood that Silvercrest knew how to obey.
It simply did not know how to love her.
The difference followed her everywhere.
Wolves bowed when she passed. They called her “my lady” with careful mouths and lowered eyes. They accepted her place beside Delvan in the great hall, accepted her seat at the council table, accepted the blue silk she wore to morning petitions because Delvan had said it suited her.
They accepted.
They did not welcome.
Selene smiled through all of it.
She smiled until her cheeks ached.
That morning, she stood near the nursery den with a basket of sugared plum cakes balanced against one hip. Children clustered before her in a loose half circle, bright-eyed and cautious. Their mothers stood behind them, polite as carved saints.
“For you,” Selene said warmly. “A treat before lessons.”
A small boy reached first.
His mother’s hand snapped to his shoulder.
Selene’s smile held.
The boy looked from his mother to Selene, then took one cake with trembling fingers.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Not Luna.
Never Luna.
The other children followed, each one quieter than the last.
Selene bent slightly toward a little girl with dark braids. “Do you like plums?”
The girl nodded.
“What is your name?”
“Yula.”
“Well, Yula, perhaps you will save one for later.”
The girl stared at the cake in her hand. “Luna Tria used to bring honey cakes after moon lessons.”
The courtyard seemed to inhale.
Selene’s fingers tightened around the basket handle.
Honey cakes.
Of course.
Even sugar had ghosts here.
“How kind of her,” Selene said.
Her voice remained soft.
Her wolf wanted teeth.
Yula’s mother dropped into an awkward bow. “Forgive her, my lady. She is young.”
“She is honest,” Selene said.
That made the woman flinch more.
Good.
Let honesty feel dangerous.
By midday, Selene hosted a meal for the elders.
She chose roasted pheasant, spiced roots, warm bread, and the old ornamental cups from the Luna cabinet. She praised Delvan before every course, speaking of his courage, his vision, his strength in refusing to let fate rule what choice should decide.
The elders listened.
They thanked her for the meal.
They ate enough to avoid insult and not a bite more.
When Selene asked one elder whether the winter blessing songs should be shortened this year for efficiency, the old woman folded her hands and said, “Luna Tria already prepared the order.”
Selene’s smile did not falter.
“How thoughtful. But Luna Tria is no longer here.”
“No,” the elder said quietly. “She is not.”
No accusation.
None needed.
It sat between them anyway.
By the time the elders left, Selene’s temples throbbed.
She dismissed the servants and stood alone beside the long table, staring at half-full plates and untouched plum wine.
She had been trained to win rooms.
She knew how to lower her lashes, how to make silence seem like pain, how to turn a man’s anger into protection. She knew when to flatter pride and when to wound it.
But Silvercrest did not move like a single man.
It moved like roots.
Deep. Tangled. Fed by old memory.
And every root seemed to have Tria’s name carved into it.
Selene grabbed one untouched silver cup and nearly threw it.
Instead, she set it down.
Control first.
Always control.
A knock came at the dining room door.
Leona entered with a small stack of ration requests pressed to her chest. The attendant’s face had become more careful since Selene ordered the moonflowers removed.
Not submissive.
Careful.
Selene hated careful servants.
They remembered too much.
“What is it?” Selene asked.
“Requests requiring Luna approval, my lady.”
There it was again.
Not Luna.
Selene held out her hand. “Bring them.”
Leona did.
Selene read quickly.
Firewood for the east dens.
Extra grain for a healer’s household.
An increase in winter rations for Marra of the lower quarter, whose mate had died two months before.
Selene paused over the name.
Marra.
She remembered the woman from the nursery courtyard. Yula’s mother.
Interesting.
“She has already received widow support,” Selene said.
Leona’s jaw tightened. “Luna Tria approved a review after the first frost. Marra has three children.”
“Then she should have thought carefully before teaching one of them to insult the woman now responsible for those rations.”
Leona went pale.
Selene lifted her gaze. “Reduce the request by half. She may reapply next moon.”
“My lady—”
Selene smiled.
Leona stopped.
“Is there a problem?”
For one breath, Selene thought the attendant might be foolish enough to answer.
Then Leona lowered her eyes. “No, my lady.”
But someone else had seen.
Garian stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking half the hall.
Selene had not heard him arrive.
That annoyed her.
His gaze moved from Leona’s lowered head to the ration request in Selene’s hand.
“Widow Marra’s household was already approved for review,” he said.
Selene’s smile sharpened. “And now it has been reviewed.”
“By you.”
“Yes.”
He stepped into the room. “On what grounds?”
“Need is not the only thing a Luna must weigh. Loyalty matters.”
Garian’s eyes cooled.
Selene felt the air change around him. Not Alpha command. Something older. The authority of a wolf who had fought, buried friends, and decided he no longer feared disappointing powerful people.
“Children repeat names they miss,” he said. “Punishing hunger for grief is poor leadership.”
Leona’s breath caught.
Selene looked at her. “Leave us.”
The attendant fled.
Garian did not.
“You should be careful,” Selene said softly. “Delvan dislikes being challenged through me.”
“I am not challenging through you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Watching.”
The single word crawled under her skin.
“Then watch closely,” Selene said. “Silvercrest is changing.”
Garian’s mouth hardened. “Not all change is growth.”
He bowed just enough to avoid insult and left.
Selene stared after him, fury tightening beneath her ribs.
The Beta was a problem.
A loyal one.
Those were worse.
That evening, Delvan came to the Luna rooms with tension in every line of his body. He shut the door harder than necessary.
“Garian confronted you.”
“He questioned a ration decision.”
“About Marra?”
Selene turned from the mirror, letting hurt enter her face before anger. “So he ran to you.”
“He brought it to council.”
Of course he had.
Selene crossed the room slowly. “Your pack is testing you again.”
Delvan dragged a hand through his hair. “They are grieving.”
“They are defying.”
His jaw tightened.
She softened her voice. “If you let Tria’s memory rule every decision, they will never accept me.”
His gaze flicked away.
Small.
Brief.
Enough to make cold rage bloom in Selene’s chest.
She stepped closer. “She is gone, Delvan.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes cut back.
Selene let her own shine. “Because sometimes I wonder if you only wanted freedom until freedom asked you to stand without her.”
His scent sharpened.
Pain. Anger.
Guilt.
“She is gone,” he said.
The words were rough.
But not certain.
Selene heard the difference.
“Are you sure you want her gone?”
Silence answered first.
The silence was worse than betrayal.
Delvan looked toward the window, toward the dark shape of Silvercrest’s pines beyond the glass.
“I made my choice,” he said.
Not yes.
Not no.
A choice.
Selene’s nails bit into her palms.
She wanted to slap him.
She wanted to scream that Tria was not some saint torn from him by cruel stars. He had stood before the pack and rejected her. He had chosen Selene. He had made the wound public and then dared bleed over it in private.
Instead, Selene lowered her lashes.
“Then help me make the pack believe it.”
Delvan turned back.
She touched his arm, light as breath. His wolf did not rise.
It never rose.
She smiled anyway.
“Support the ration decision,” she said. “Let them see you trust me.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded once. “I will speak to council.”
Victory tasted thin.
Later, after Delvan left, a servant brought fresh towels.
Not Leona.
A boy with nervous hands and debt in his scent.
He passed Selene without looking at her and left a folded cloth on the washstand.
Inside was a strip of treated paper.
Her father’s seal marked the corner in black wax.
Selene waited until the door closed before she opened it.
Darius’s handwriting cut across the page in hard, slanted lines.
Progress is too slow.
Send patrol routes. Gate weaknesses. Names of dissenting warriors.
Confirm the rejected Luna cannot return.
Selene read it twice.
The words did not comfort her.
They should have.
Her father was moving. Blackridge was watching. The plan had not died in the courtyard.
But the final line sat like a thorn.
Confirm the rejected Luna cannot return.
Selene crossed to Tria’s desk and sat.
The chair still smelled faintly of lavender.
She hated that too.
She took out her stylus and wrote with scentless ink.
Silvercrest remains divided. Delvan is defensive but not broken. Garian is a threat. I am working to isolate him.
She paused over the next line.
Tria is no longer a threat.
Her hand hovered.
Was that true?
Tria was gone. Exiled. Stripped. Rejected.
But her name remained in children’s mouths. In elder rites. In ration requests. In Delvan’s silences.
Selene pressed harder.
Tria is no longer a threat, she wrote.
Then she folded the paper before doubt could make her add more.
The message left through the same nervous servant before moonrise.
Selene stood alone in the corridor afterward, listening to Silvercrest settle into another uneasy night.
Then voices drifted from the lower hall.
Patrol wolves.
She almost ignored them.
Until she heard one word.
Ironwood.
Selene went still.
A guard spoke in a low voice beyond the corner. “I am telling you, the border scent was fresh. Female wolf. Dark coat. Injured, maybe.”
Another answered, “Near Ironwood?”
“Close enough.”
Selene’s hand tightened around the stair rail.
The first guard lowered his voice further.
“Matched the Luna’s scent.”
For one moment, Selene could not move.
Then her mouth curved slowly in the dark.
So.
Tria had not disappeared.
She had run straight into Ravin’s territory.