Being Luna was nothing like Arvella had imagined.
In her mind — in the naive, pre-awakening version of her mind that seemed to belong to a different person entirely, a girl who braided wildflowers into her hair and watched the pack from the edges of bonfires she was never fully invited to join — she had pictured a Luna as a figurehead. A symbol. Someone who stood beside the Alpha at ceremonies, smiled gracefully at the right moments, wore beautiful dresses, and existed primarily as living proof that the Alpha had his life together. A decorative role. A title without teeth.
She had been spectacularly, embarrassingly, exhaustingly wrong.
Being Luna of Silver Fang Pack was a full-time job with no weekends, no holidays, no lunch breaks, and a constituency of three hundred wolves who all wan
