True to Ravhiel's words, the marking did not hurt. Not truly.
It stung, yes—the kind of sharp burn that made her nerves jolt for a heartbeat—but the pain faded quickly, dulled under the weight of expectation and adrenaline. Luna stood still through it, silent and composed, barely even flinching.
'That's it?' she thought, blinking through the ghost of the sensation. 'That was supposed to be the hardest part?'
When the silver was lifted from her skin and the ritual was deemed complete, a rush of applause and cheers followed. Tyrnhael stood, proud and beaming, announcing that a welcoming feast would be held in her honor that very night.
The crowd erupted with joy. Their roars echoed across the sacred hall, a chorus of wolves and people alike.
Luna smiled softly—but only because they expected her to.
In truth, she didn't want to stay. She didn't want to bask in the attention or the feast or the celebration.
Because Luna had somewhere else she wanted to go.
