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There is something eerie about caves. The rocks carved out around you by water and wind over thousands of years. The temple is built over this cave system, we descended what felt like miles of stone stairs to arrive at the cave mouth. My body aches from the journey and my activities before. “Remove your robe.” One of the priestesses says to me. These are the first words they have uttered since escorting me to the temple as the Immaculate Mother demanded. I comply, resigned to following along. “These are the sacred springs of Selene. It is said the minerals hold the dreams of Endymion’s endless sleep; the water, the tears of the Goddess for her lover’s endless slumber.” Another priestess explains leading me toward the pool. “This is a ceremonial bath to cleanse you so the Immaculate Mother may see your path.” I suppress the fear rising like bile from my stomach. My mother warned me that the priestesses can detect witches. “We are one. We will push past.” Theia assures me in my mi
There is a hollowness to temples that I enjoy. The smooth white stone floors and endless smooth white walls reaching the massive domed ceiling that must be hung from the sky, it’s so far out of reach. The walls have the same glowing quality of the moon, so finely polished and sparkling. The ceiling depicts the different events of the ancient texts and the phases of the moon are cut in skylights in the sanctuary. The scale is considerably more modest as we walk towards the dining area, the ceiling a less impressive height of an Oak tree. Tall and majestic, but not otherworldly. The walls, still smooth and white, but dotted with official portraits of Immaculate Mother’s from long ago. The fashion unchanged with time, white robe after white robe, the same serene expression. Two doors open and we arrive at the dining hall. The long table is already full of white robed priestesses, perfectly silent standing like pawns on a chessboard behind their chairs, unable to move a space forward. No
“Isn’t it fascinating?” Dmitry asks. I’m at the helm of the stove, my only focus, the collection of bubbling pots in front of me. “Hmm?” I say in response. “That the monarchy forces an exam before allowing anyone in the line of succession to marry their mate.” He says. His tone indicates he has said this exact phrase before, my attention on stews and bread not mates and weddings. “Is it? Elites marry elites, if they can help it. What are the percentages anyways?” I ask. “The process is steeped in mystery.” He says dramatically. “We don’t even know what the process is, let alone how many fail trying to make it through. All we know is when a marriage happens, she must have passed.” “Why do they even waste time teaching this in school if they are not going to teach it?” I ask. “Oh, they don’t teach it, exactly. They teach that the women of the line are deemed worthy by both the Goddess and the ancient rituals of the Kingdom. This ritual is designed to test the worthiness of the can
“Upon the full moon that our Alpha is given his mate, Destiny reveals our Alpha’s fate. For an Alpha born under the approval of the stars, Leads our people righteously in all regards. A mate must pass the Trials to demonstrate their strength, A true Luna will go to any length. Demonstrate the truth of the bond and strength of body and spirit, The ability to pass is destiny- do not fear it! As the Goddess guides, We shall abide! As the wolf controls and the spirit is guided only by honesty, The spirit illuminates the truths we only know subconsciously. To heart and soul Threads bind and make whole. Devotion to the Goddess or to her Alpha mate, The outcome of the trials will determine her fate. “ The Order of the Kingdom of the Moon: Luna Trials I hear the echoes of steps in the stone hallway outside my door before my eyes even dare to open. I look toward the ceiling to the small square window for a shaft of light. Dawn is not yet splashing her colors across the s
The priestesses submit. Even the most steadfast of them eventually break. Their necks all bared to me. Theia hums in gratification. The Immaculate Mother is the first to shift back into her womanly form. She makes no effort to shield her body from me. She stands in her naked glory, no shame on her face, head held high. “There has not been a wolf from the Celestial Alpha line in centuries. The texts say the last wolf of the line waits for their match, which will only come when our true leader, the defender of the faith, is found.” The Immaculate Mother tells me. “Are you trying to say that is you? You are our awaited deliverer?” She says, voice full of doubt. “Impossible!” She studies my wolf. She is searching for something, but I do not know what. I tilt my head trying to understand. She grabs her robe and puts it on. She flips furiously through an ancient book placed on the altar. She abruptly stops, seemingly finding what she was so desperately searching for. “Here!” She shou
“Higher purpose.” I muse. I have read enough religious texts to know that saviors and saints are just martyrs by another name. “May I read the texts, Immaculate Mother?” I ask, seeking clarity. “Once married and sealed to Prince Edward of Fives, you will have access to all sacred texts of the pack. You are not a member of the pack, so you may not read the prophecies and divinations of the Oracles.” She replies sternly. “When shall I become a member?” I inquire. “Once Prince Edward of Fives accepts you within the temple and seals himself to you.” She says. “He will be told of your current success.” She assures. “Your identity as the last wolf of the Celestial Alpha Line will not be discussed until it is confirmed by your marking. You will know my child by the mark they make when they lay claim, A full moon with a sword emblazoned with Selene’s name.” She recites effortlessly. “Was my crescent mark and alpha command not enough?” Theia’s voice rages through me and out of my mouth. A
The ocean has always fascinated me. Dmitry would often carve me sea creatures he would see in books at school. He always felt his birds were more authentic because he was able to see them with his own eyes, rather than the depiction of a creature from another artist’s eyes. I would playfully disagree, always beaming with happiness to be able to run my fingers along the ridges of fins and scales. The dress reminds me of the sea. A deep endless blue, always in motion, tumultuous and wild. The dress has long sleeves and is tightly fitted to my bodice. The boat neck, a nod to innocence and purity. The skirt is full and glides with a swish across the floor. I braid my hair and coil it into a chignon. I look into the mirror. My reflection is strikingly similar to my mother. An irksome resemblance. The similarities are only amplified by my attire. Perfect porcelain doll dress. Perfectly coiffed and painted. The delicate wing of eyeliner and softly pink blushed cheeks. The playfully pink li
My eyes squeeze closed tightly. Small steadying breaths. I stop just short of the main dining room door. I must remain composed. Perhaps tonight is the next trial. Winning the acceptance of the King. A man who I have grown to hate for all that he is and all that he represents. Slavery. Pain. Starvation. Abuse. The King knows nothing of this. He lives in excess. In luxury. A table piled high with food for only a few nibbles to be taken. Far more interested in wine and women, rather than famine and fatigue. “Try to not openly sneer.” Asteria snorts. “Royalty do not care for that. They prefer open and exaggerated adoration.” “I’m not sure I’m capable of that.” I murmur. Remember Dmitry. In the end, it is all for him and his salvation. Him reclaiming what's ours by birthright. The true alpha of the pack. My destiny became forever tied to his the day our father died. “I’m sorry love, but your daddy is gone.” I remember Agatha whispering to me. Her tone was laden with grie
It was as if Asteria’s memory played out on a screen in front of me. I’m a captive audience, cordoned off in a far off corner of my mind. Separated from my body but still aware of what is happening. The scene from Theia’s point of view also playing out, oddly disconnected from me, padded feet to forest floor the smell of earth and water. The dirt flecked in her fur and her nose pressed to the earth inhaling its aroma. Asteria’s trauma unfolds before me, almost happening to me, although the screams are not my own. The hunger in his eyes. The manic rage. His whip. My feelings are not entirely my own, it is as if I am Asteria in this experience. “Prince Aares.” I say in a voice that is not my own. A memory of an event I never experienced, yet vividly recall. This isn’t real, yet, I can feel his whip biting and tearing my skin. I can feel the blood snaking down the back of my thighs. The warm ooze somehow soothing the stinging pain. My back flayed open. His scent coats my skin like an
“May the Goddess anoint you with her love and bless you with your dreams.” “We give our devotion to the Goddess!” My mate and I reply. The priestesses are all around us. Their voices echoing off the walls of the cave, it’s impossible to tell how many are speaking as the voices echo around us. Our naked bodies only inches away from one another as we stand in the pool, his intoxicating scent masked by the abundance of minerals in the spring. “We ask our Goddess to cleanse you of all your impurities. Remove any malice from your hearts.” The priestesses chant around us. My body feels drawn to him. The urge I have to touch him is overwhelming, to just feel his skin pressed against mine. Any doubts I have floating away the second I am near him. I look ahead to the priestesses. I do not dare look at him in all his glory. One glance at him may be what breaks the dam holding back my urges, my last vestige of control. “Tonight, you are to shift into your true nature. The greatest trea
“The Mountain stands, unmoving— never wavering, rooted deeply into the soil.” The Queen begins, seated behind me on a small chair, her gown spilling out of the narrow seat displaying the sheer volume of fabric she seems to carry so effortlessly. Monica is plaiting my hair for the first ceremony. An intricate pattern of different braids joined together and fastened with a plain rag tie matching my temple dress. “The Wind with her sons raging across the lands, charge right at the Great Mountain, but it still stands. The nymphs of the waters try to claw through it, but still it stands. Rigid. Strong. Proud.” Her hands move with the story, in a way it was more akin to a fireside chat rather than dressing room gossip. It reminds me of my father’s stories around the fire. I listen to her tale, knowing little of her people, attentively watching her through the mirrors reflection. “The Goddess herself blessed the Great Mountain, and appointed the Shadow Mountain pack to be the Guardians
“Waltz of the Mountains.” The King sneers. “Let’s see how well you keep up.” He casts a glare at Edward. “You know how your Grandmother adores the dance of her homeland, grandson. Do not disappoint her for the sake of your mate.” The warning is clear. “Yes, my King. I would not dream of disappointing.” He bows deeply, his hand on his heart pledging his allegiance. I remember our first meeting. “You play a dangerous game, girl.” He said with his hand around my throat. I suppose I am still that dangerous silly girl, too headstrong to fully submit. Incapable of bending to a tyrant. Incapable of silence. I am who I create. I feel Theia and Asteria in the front of my mind. Any overt display of power would be disastrous, so they lurk, careful not to allow their presence shimmer in my eyes. I deeply curtsy holding my hand to my heart as well, averting my eyes to the floor, not uttering a word. Silence and obedience. That is what the King demands. My stubbornness to blame for not b
Silence. I dare not speak or move. “I have heard you can dance.” The King says in my direction. A small smile creeped on his lips. A sneer. “Yes, your majesty.” I say meekly. “You shall dance for us.” Edward looks at me with sadness in his eyes. A shimmer of anger rippling in his fields of green, at my faux pas. The weight of the King’s displeasure not only hitting me, but crushing him as well. Collateral damage. “I would love to see the waltz.” The Queen hums. “Edward can lead her if she does not know it. Besides, she will be expected to dance at their wedding celebrations.” I hope he indulges his wife. It is a far better option than being forced to gyrate in front of the King. His expression leads me to believe he wishes to not only remind me of my place but humiliate me in the process. The Queen’s suggestion is only her tossing a rope to her grandson to save him from the front row seat to my humiliation. The King looks to his Queen. “Very well.” He replies. “L
Fairytales have a modicum of truth to them. Just enough truth that the reader can absorb the message, learn whatever moral imperative is being taught. The tricky part is discerning what little bit is rooted in truth, and what is an outright lie, a fantasy embellishment to keep you reading. I prefer the stories with happy endings, lessons are still learned, but the main character in the end is well and fine. Perhaps that’s my first mistake, assuming my placement in the tale is the main character, rather than the abused maid or gullible villager, or otherwise nameless background character. A person in the crowd as the King strolls down the street naked. A lady’s maid to the wicked queen or damsel in distress. A nameless cousin to the main character, who tried on the shoe but it did not fit. Perhaps I am the main character, in one of those tales where she tragically dies. Her choices and bad decisions leading her to death, rather than the happiness she was seeking. The Queen seem
“Beauty is pain.” Monica consoles. “You cannot achieve divinity without sacrifice. We want ethereal. We want glamor.” “We want to be able to have dinner.” I squeak, the corset of the gown so tight I can barely breathe. “Or maybe just be able to breathe.” I have been trying on gowns for hours. I tire of looking at my reflection. “Long deep breaths from the lungs, not the belly.” She demonstrates, her body rod straight, long measured breaths expanding her ribcage. My wedding gown, gowns for tea and dinner, dresses for travel and leisure, for breakfast or prayer— the stacks of fabric seem endless. I was nothing more than a doll. Monica has the same persistence as Agatha. I remember her wrapping me in endless fabrics for my Moon Ceremony gown. “You will be elegant! Ravishing! Demure!” She shouted as she wrapped me in satins and tulle. “Posture is key. Beyond that, relax. High anxiety breathing isn’t very effective or attractive.” Monica concludes. I smile, my mind wander
Something in my soul longs for the sunshine. The rays on my skin make me come alive. My internal battery dependent upon feeling the sun against my skin. I do not recall the last time I was outside in the sun. It seems a lifetime ago that I was able to truly enjoy it. My gown manifesting what I need the most, time to bask in the sun. I can feel the whispers of winter on the autumn wind. A small chill dancing in the breeze, winter days soon to come. I stare upwards to the sky. The sun’s rays like golden spires piercing through the clouds, a magnificent sight. The sun coyly peeks from behind the clouds to bathe me in its rays. Today, I am the sun, and I will absorb the warmth and joy it brings me. Monica stops in front of a small gate created between two apple trees. The trees already bare from harvest, the priestesses and acolytes have started the pruning process, preparing the orchard for winter. The branches and stems are neatly stacked in piles along the treeline. My ow
The material is a diaphanous gauzy gold, a Grecian peplos, the fabric expertly draped on the body. A hint of silhouette peeking through the multiple layers and folds of fabric, my feminine form exposed through gauzy golden haze. I am the sun incarnate. Even my tiny golden bracelet glints in the light, highlighted by the gown's golden glow. My ring proudly displayed on my finger. Monica has dusted my eyelids with a golden shimmer and painted my lips a soft pink. I look upon myself in the mirror. The long elegant gown perfectly compliments my shape. Long gone is the young girl dreaming of her escape, replaced in the mirror with an elegant woman, soon to be a married woman. A princess. A future Queen. The gown strikes me as familiar but I am unable to place it. I feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. “You look divine!” Monica squeals. “You are the artist, I’m just the canvas.” I respond softly. I stare into the mirror in awe of her art. I don’t even recognize myself in the reflectio