Chapter 9: The Flames of Death, The Oath of Rebirth
Selene~~
The chains around my wrists and ankles dig deep into my flesh, heavy and unrelenting, each link a cold reminder of my downfall. My body is broken, my strength long drained, yet they still drag me forward like a worthless animal. My bare feet scrape against the rough stone, leaving behind smears of blood as I stumble. Every step feels like knives slicing through my skin, but I refuse to fall—not yet.
The crowd watches in silence, their faces shrouded in the flickering light of the torches. Some wear expressions of pity, but most—most are filled with cruel satisfaction, as if they are witnessing justice. Justice.
A bitter laugh claws at my throat.
These were the same people who once called me Luna. The same people who bowed their heads in respect, who sought my guidance, who praised my strength. Now, they avert their gazes, pretending they never stood by my side.
The betrayal weighs heavier than the chains.
A sharp tug jerks me forward, and I barely suppress a gasp as pain shoots through my shoulders. My captors—warriors I once trusted—drag me toward the execution pyre, their grips tight, merciless. My knees buckle, but they do not slow. They do not care.
I force my head up, my gaze locking onto the platform ahead.
The pyre stands tall, a grotesque monument of my impending death. Dry wood is stacked high, drenched in oil, its scent thick and suffocating. The base of the structure is already smoldering, tendrils of smoke curling into the night air. The flames are small for now, licking at the edges of the logs, but I know they will grow—devour—consume.
A shiver runs through me, not from fear, but from the raw fury boiling inside my chest.
I hear her before I see her.
Lillith's voice is a soft wail, trembling with false grief. Lies. Every word that leaves her mouth is poison, dripping with deceit, yet the pack clings to them as truth.
"She deserves this," Lillith sobs, clinging to Damian's arm. "She killed my child! My innocent, unborn pup!"
The crowd stirs, whispering.
Hatred. Judgment. Condemnation.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
That child never existed.
I want to scream it. I want to rip the truth from my chest and shove it down their throats. But I know it will not matter. They have already chosen their side.
And Damian—
My gaze shifts to him.
He stands tall beside her, his golden eyes cold and void of the love they once held for me. His arm is wrapped protectively around Lillith's waist, as if she is something precious. His lips are pressed into a firm line, but there is no hesitation in his stance.
He believes her.
He has already sentenced me to death in his heart.
A hollow, bitter pain spreads through me, deeper than any physical wound.
I was his mate.
I was his Luna.
I was the woman who stood beside him, fought for him, bled for him. And yet, at the first whisper of betrayal, he turned his back on me.
Damian Blackwood, the man I once loved, the man I once gave my life to—he is the one who orders my death.
"Throw the bastard into the fire," he commands.
The roar of the crowd is deafening.
Two guards seize me, their hands rough as they yank me toward the pyre. I struggle, not out of fear, but out of pure defiance. I will not go meekly. I will not give them the satisfaction of my weakness.
But I am weak.
I am so, so weak.
The moment they shove me onto the platform, pain erupts through my body. My knees slam against the wooden beams, splinters digging deep into my skin. Before I can move, the guards loop heavy chains around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the structure.
The fire crackles below, heat rising in suffocating waves.
My heart pounds violently, my breath coming in shallow gasps as the smoke thickens. I twist my wrists, testing the chains, but they do not budge. My body is exhausted, broken beyond repair. There is no escape.
The flames creep closer, kissing the edges of the platform.
Then—agony.
It starts at my feet. A sharp, searing pain that latches onto my skin like a thousand scorching needles. My body jerks instinctively, but the chains hold me firm. My muscles lock as the fire spreads, licking up my calves, curling around my legs like hungry serpents.
The pain is unbearable.
It is more than just heat. More than just burning. It is destruction. The flames do not simply touch me—they consume me, rip through me, tear me apart from the inside out. My skin blisters, bubbles, then bursts, the scent of charred flesh thick in my nostrils.
A scream rips from my throat, raw and filled with agony.
The fire moves higher, swallowing my waist, climbing my ribs. Every nerve in my body is alight with suffering, a relentless, merciless torment that does not end. My lungs seize, choking on smoke, but I cannot stop screaming. My body jerks violently, instincts screaming at me to run, to escape, but there is nowhere to go.
The pain. The fire. The betrayal.
It is too much.
I see my father's face—lifeless, cold, his blood staining the stone floor.
I see Lillith's smirk, barely hidden behind her fake tears.
I see Damian's back, turned away from me, unwilling to watch as I burn.
Hatred floods my veins, stronger than the fire consuming my body.
I was a fool.
I was weak.
I let love blind me, let devotion chain me to a man who never truly valued me. And now, I am dying for it.
No more.
If I had another chance—if fate was cruel enough to grant me another life—I would never make the same mistakes.
I would not love Damian.
I would not protect this pack.
I would not be weak.
I would destroy them all.
The fire roars, swallowing me whole, but before the darkness takes me, I hear it.
A voice.
Neither cruel nor kind. Neither warm nor cold. It echoes in the void, surrounding me, wrapping around my soul.
"Do you truly wish for another chance?"
The world fades. The pain disappears.
I am no longer burning.
But I am not dead.
Not yet.
With my last breath, I do not beg for mercy.
I demand vengeance.