Decoy Luna

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.