Decoy Luna

Chapter 1

Tess

The roar of the crowd is a physical thing. It presses in on me, smelling of stale ale and bloodlust. It’s a sound I know better than my own name. My opponent, a brute named Silas with fists like hammers, spits a glob of blood onto the packed dirt floor of the pit. He thinks he has me. He’s bigger, stronger, and at least a head taller. He is also slow.

He lunges. I don't dodge back. I move in, a whisper of motion under his wild swing. My left hand slaps the inside of his knee, a sharp, stinging blow that makes the joint buckle. It’s not enough to take him down, but it’s a surprise. His grunt of pain is lost in the noise. He swings again, and this time I let his arm graze my shoulder, using his own momentum to spin me around his body. My elbow finds the soft spot just below his ribs. He gasps, the air leaving his lungs in a wet rush.

This isn’t about strength. It’s never been about strength. It’s about seeing the openings no one else does. It’s about knowing that a man his size needs more air, more space, more time. I give him none of it. Before he can recover, I kick the back of his good knee. He stumbles, crashing to the dirt with a curse.

The crowd loves it. They scream my name. Or the name they gave me, anyway. Shadow. I don’t give him a chance to rise. I’m on his back, one forearm pressed tight against his windpipe. He thrashes, his big hands grabbing for me, but he can’t get a purchase. He can’t breathe. I hold the choke, my eyes cold, my body a coiled spring of controlled violence. I watch the fight leave his eyes. He taps the dirt floor. Once. Twice. Frantic.

I release him and stand, my chest heaving. The den master tosses a small, clinking purse at my feet. My payment. It’s not much, but it’s more than we had yesterday. I scoop it up, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the sting of a cut over my eye. My gaze sweeps over the jeering, cheering faces. This is my home. This is my family. And they are dying.

I push through the throng, the familiar stench of sweat and sickness clinging to the air. Little Elara’s cough echoes in my mind. Old Finn’s labored breathing. This purse might buy a few doses of the cheap medicine, the stuff that barely works. It won’t be enough. It’s never enough.

“That was quite the display.”

The voice is smooth, polished, and utterly out of place. It cuts through the den’s grime like a clean knife. I turn. He stands near the exit, a man dressed in silver and deep blue silks that probably cost more than this entire building. He smells of lavender soap and condescension. Two guards, built like brick walls, stand behind him.

“What do you want?” I ask. My voice is rough from the chokehold.

“My name is Marcellus,” he says, his lips curling into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “I am an advisor to the royal family of the Silvermoon Pack.”

I almost laugh. A royal advisor. Here. “You’re lost,” I say, turning to leave.

“On the contrary. I came here looking for you.” He takes a step forward, wrinkling his nose at the floor as if he might catch a disease from it. “I have a proposition. One that will solve your… pestilence problem.”

That stops me. I face him again, my hand tightening on the small purse of coins. “I’m listening.”

He gestures to a rickety table in a corner. I follow, staying out of arm’s reach. His guards watch me, their hands on their swords.

“The King has a daughter, Princess Eveline,” Marcellus begins, his tone that of a teacher explaining something to a particularly slow child. “She is betrothed to Alpha Eryk of the Frostclaw Pack. A political necessity, you understand. A unification of territories.”

I say nothing. I just watch him.

“Unfortunately, the princess is… fragile. Chronically ill. She cannot make the journey, nor can she withstand the harsh climate of the Frostclaw mountains. More importantly, there are threats. Assassins who would see this alliance fail by ending the royal line.”

He pauses, letting the words hang in the foul air. “They expect a weak, sickly princess. So we will give them one.”

My eyes narrow. “What does this have to do with me?”

Marcellus’s smile widens. “You, my dear, are going to be Princess Eveline.” He says it so simply, so casually, it takes a moment to land. When it does, I do laugh. A short, harsh bark.

“You’re insane.”

“I am practical,” he counters, his smile never wavering. He slides a heavy bag across the table. It lands with a solid, definitive thud. It is much, much larger than the one in my hand. “That is your first payment. It is enough to buy every drop of medicine in this city. Enough to save every last one of your grubby little den mates.”

I stare at the bag. My heart hammers against my ribs. It feels like a trap.

“Why me?”

“Because you look enough like her, once we clean you up. And because no one would ever suspect a street fighter is a princess. Your role is simple. You will travel to the Frostclaw fortress. You will be clumsy. You will be shy. You will be utterly, pathetically weak. You will be everything you are not.”

His gaze flicks over me, dismissive. “You will trip over your own feet. You will stammer when spoken to. Your entire purpose is to be a fragile target, to draw the assassins into the open where Alpha Eryk’s guards can eliminate them.”

“You want to use me as bait.”

“I want to hire you for a role,” he corrects smoothly. “A very well paying role. The real princess will be kept safe and hidden until the threat is neutralized. You will be a placeholder.”

The way he says ‘placeholder’ makes my skin crawl. Like a piece of furniture.

“You will have to learn etiquette,” he continues, ticking points off on his fingers. “How to walk without a brawler’s swagger. How to hold a fork. How to curtsy. It will be… challenging for someone of your background. But the reward is significant.”

I think of Elara. I think of the rasp in Finn’s chest. I think of the desperation that claws at our den day after day.

He sees the conflict in my face. He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Think of it, street rat. A warm bed. Fine clothes. All you have to do is pretend to be weak. It should be easy enough. Just act the part of a helpless girl. A victim.”

His condescension is a physical blow, worse than any punch Silas threw. He thinks I’m just an animal to be bought, a tool to be used and discarded. He is probably right.

But the weight of that bag on the table is the weight of my family’s lives.

I look from the bag to his smug face. I see the contempt in his eyes, the absolute certainty that he owns me, that my poverty gives him the right to look down on me. And I hate him for it. I hate him more than any opponent I have ever faced in the pit.

But I also need what he is offering.

I push my own small purse across the table toward him. A down payment on my soul.

“When do I start?” I ask, my voice flat and dead.

Chapter 2

Tess

The cold hits me first. It’s a physical thing, a predator that sinks its teeth into my skin through the ridiculously thin silk of this dress. The fortress is less a castle and more a mountain carved into the shape of a nightmare. Towers of black stone claw at a perpetually grey sky. This place is a tomb.

I step out of the carriage, and the hem of my gown immediately catches on the unforgiving stone steps. I stumble, just as Marcellus drilled into me. A pathetic little gasp escapes my lips. It feels like swallowing poison.

“Mind your feet, Princess,” a gruff voice says. One of Eryk’s guards offers a hand. His grip is rough, his eyes dismissive. He already sees what I am meant to be. A liability.

I keep my eyes downcast, my shoulders hunched. “Th-thank you,” I whisper, my voice a pale imitation of my own. I hate it. I hate every second of this performance.

The great hall is vast and hollow. The only warmth comes from a massive fireplace that seems to be losing its battle against the chill seeping from the stone. Banners bearing the sigil of a snarling white wolf hang from the rafters, watching me like silent judges.

Two men stand before the hearth. One is older, with a severe face and eyes that miss nothing. The other… the other is the Alpha.

Alpha Eryk of the Frostclaw Pack is not a man. He is a storm held in human form. He’s taller than I expected, with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of this frozen kingdom. His dark hair is tied back, and his face is all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. He radiates a power so potent, so absolute, it’s a wonder the stones don’t crack around him.

I remember Marcellus’s endless coaching. ‘Curtsy low. Don’t meet his eyes. Act like you are terrified of your own shadow.’

I execute a clumsy, wavering curtsy, dipping so low I nearly lose my balance for real. My gaze is fixed on the polished floor.

“Alpha Eryk,” I murmur, forcing a tremor into my voice.

Silence stretches. It’s heavy and cold. I can feel his gaze on me, not with interest, but with the flat boredom of a man examining a tool he has no use for.

“Princess Eveline,” he finally says. His voice is a low rumble, like rocks grinding together deep underground. “You have arrived.”

It’s not a welcome. It’s a statement of fact. A tedious piece of business now present in his hall.

I risk a glance up through my lashes. His eyes are the color of a frozen lake, and they hold just as much warmth. He isn’t even really looking at me. His focus is somewhere over my shoulder, as if I am too insignificant to command his full attention.

“The journey… it was very long,” I say, letting my sentence trail off weakly.

He gives a nearly imperceptible nod. “This is Kael, my adviser.”

The older man dips his head, a gesture so curt it’s an insult. “Princess.”

His eyes are just as dismissive as the Alpha’s, but sharper. More analytical. While Eryk dismisses me as a fragile piece in a political game, Kael looks at me like a problem he will eventually have to solve.

Internally, I’m cataloging everything. The Alpha stands with his weight evenly distributed, a fighter’s stance. Ready to move. Kael is more rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, but his posture screams discipline. There are four guards in the hall, two at the main entrance, two flanking a corridor to our right. Their armor is practical, leather and steel, meant for fighting, not for show. All of them are armed.

“I trust your accommodations will be… suitable,” Eryk says, his tone making it clear he doesn’t care one way or the other.

“I am sure they will be lovely,” I stutter, fumbling with a fold of my dress.

He turns his attention fully to Kael, as if I have already ceased to exist. “See that the princess is shown to her chambers. I have matters to attend to.”

He moves to leave without another word. As he passes, I take a small, hesitant step forward, as a frightened girl might. My foot catches on the edge of a bearskin rug. I pitch forward with a small, startled cry.

It’s a perfect fall. I practiced it a dozen times. Controlled, graceless, and designed to look utterly accidental. I throw my hands out, ready to catch myself on the stone floor.

An arm like a steel band shoots out and clamps around my bicep, stopping my fall with a jolt. I’m yanked upright. Alpha Eryk holds me, his grip painfully tight.

His icy eyes are finally on me. Truly on me. And they are filled with pure, undiluted scorn.

“Watch your step,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous. He releases me so abruptly I stumble back again. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns and strides from the hall, his black cloak sweeping behind him like a gathering storm.

I stand there, my heart hammering against my ribs, the skin on my arm burning where he touched me. The performance was flawless. He believes I am a weak, clumsy fool. So why does it feel like I just lost the first round in the pit?

Kael’s cold voice cuts through my thoughts. “This way, Princess.”

He doesn’t offer an arm. He just turns and leads the way down the corridor. I follow on trembling legs, keeping my head bowed. The part of me that is the Shadow is screaming. It’s memorizing the turns, counting the doors, noting the lack of windows. It’s assessing the man in front of me as a threat.

But the girl playing the princess just clutches her hands together and tries to look as if she might shatter from a harsh word.

Kael stops at a heavy wooden door and pushes it open. “Your chambers.”

He steps aside. I walk past him into a room that is larger than our entire den. A fire roars in the hearth, a four poster bed is draped in furs, and a table is laden with food. It’s a gilded cage.

I turn to thank him, but he is already gone. The door clicks shut, the sound echoing in the opulent silence.

I’m alone.

For a single, blessed moment, I let the mask drop. I straighten my spine, roll my shoulders, and take a deep, steadying breath. The air still feels like ice in my lungs.

My eyes scan the room again, but this time with a fighter’s assessment. The window has a heavy latch but leads to a sheer drop. The fireplace is too narrow to climb. The only way out is the door I came through.

Marcellus wanted me to be a helpless victim. Eryk already sees me as one. Good. Let them.

Victims are underestimated. And underestimated is the most dangerous thing you can be.

Chapter 3

Eryk

This betrothal is a political necessity. A chain forged of ink and empty promises that I am forced to wear. My father’s kindness was a disease that nearly rotted this pack from the inside out. Rivals saw it not as strength, but as a crack in the foundation. They exploited it, and we nearly bled to death on this very stone.

I will not make the same mistake.

And now they have sent me the living embodiment of that weakness. This Princess Eveline. She is everything I despise. A fragile doll made of glass and whispers, designed to be protected, to be a burden.

I watched her stumble from her carriage. I saw the pathetic, practiced way she nearly fell in the great hall. Her entire being is an apology. A simpering, useless piece on a board I am being forced to play.

I feel nothing for her but a cold, weary obligation.

I am walking toward the east wing when the sound of shattering porcelain echoes down the corridor. A young servant has dropped a tray just as the princess is passing by.

She gasps. A perfect, startled sound. Her hands fly to her mouth in a pantomime of shock.

But for a single, jarring moment, I see something else. Her eyes. They are not wide with fright. They are sharp. Calculating. In that instant of chaos, her body did not recoil. It coiled. A predator’s stillness before the strike.

Then it is gone. Vanished as if it were never there. Her shoulders slump, her eyes fill with a fabricated terror, and she looks like she might faint from the noise. I dismiss it. A trick of the flickering torchlight. A projection of my own paranoia.

But the image sticks in my mind, a splinter under the skin.

Later, Marcellus arrives. He reeks of the southern court, of perfume and deceit. He sweeps into my study, his silver and blue silks an affront to the grim stone and steel of my fortress.

“Alpha Eryk,” he says, his smile as thin as a razor’s edge. “I trust the princess is settling in?”

“She is here,” I reply, my voice flat. We do not offer him a seat.

“Excellent. Then we may finalize the contract.” He unrolls a scroll with a flourish, the parchment covered in the elaborate script of his king.

I read the terms. They are as expected. An exchange of lands for a life. A truce bought with a weak link. I sign my name, the scratch of the quill the only sound in the room.

“It is done,” I say, rolling the scroll back up. “You may take your leave.”

He bows, the picture of diplomacy. “Of course, Alpha. I only wish to have a final word with the princess before the welcome feast. To ensure she understands her duties.”

I nod, a curt dismissal. He slithers from the room. I remain at my desk, but the splinter in my mind begins to ache. I follow, my steps silent on the stone floors. I find them in a small antechamber.

Marcellus has her cornered. Her back is to a cold stone wall.

“You have done adequately so far,” Marcellus says, his voice a low hiss of contempt. “But do not get comfortable. Remember your place.”

“I… I will, my lord,” she stammers, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“The welcome feast is tomorrow night. The entire court will be watching. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and you will not only fail, you will doom the real princess.” He takes a step closer, looming over her. He sneers.

“Do you understand me, street rat?”

The words hang in the air between them. Street rat.

I watch her. I see it again. It is not a trick of the light this time. For a fraction of a second, her jaw tightens into a line of pure granite. Her meek, downcast eyes flash with something that is not fear. It is lethal. It is a promise of violence held back by the thinnest of threads.

Her hand, hidden in the folds of her silken dress, clenches into a fist so tight the knuckles must be white.

Then, the mask slams back into place. The tension drains from her body. Her shoulders hunch. Her eyes become wide, watery pools of fear.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispers, her voice trembling perfectly. “I… I understand. I will not fail.”

Marcellus looks satisfied. He gives a condescending pat to her cheek and sweeps away, leaving her alone, trembling by the wall.

I stay in the shadows, unmoving. The discrepancy is too great. The performance is too perfect. The cowering princess he treats like dirt, and the fighter’s fury I saw in her eyes. The title of royalty, and the insult of a street rat.

It is a lie. The entire thing is a lie.

I do not know what game she is playing. But I will find out.

The welcome feast tomorrow will not be a celebration. It will be a hunt. I will watch her every move. Every breath. Every single, clumsy, calculated stumble.

And I will tear her secret from her.