The days that followed the gathering blurred into something soft and unexpected.

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Where once the streets had felt heavy with silence and suspicion, now they carried small signs of life.

Laughter here, a broom sweeping there, and always–flowers.

It began with a little girl no more than six, pressing a wilted daisy into my hand when I walked the courtyard.

She had no words, only wide eyes, but she ran before I could ask her name. The next morning, a cluster of women waited by the steps with sprigs ofvender and rosemary. “For the Luna,” one of them murmured, cheeks pink as though she was daring something forbidden. Soon it was elders, stooping under years, tucking violets on the ledge of my window. And then the children–always the children–bringing handfuls of dandelions, wild roses, whatever their small fingers could gather.

What?

At first, I didn’t know what to do with it.

I had lived in Florence long enough to know how people look at power–with awe, with fear, with hunger. But not like this. Not with simple gifts, not with eyes that warmed when they met mine.

Maria teased me mercilessly. “You’ll be buried in petals before spring, Luna.” But I saw the pride in her face as she arranged each offering in jars and bowls until every room smelled of green life.

Even Francesco noticed.

One morning, as I wound a sprig ofvender into my braid, he caught me at the mirror and arched his brow. “Is my Luna building herself an altar?”

Iughed. “It isn’t me. It’s them. They bring it, unasked.”

His smile tilted, not mocking but reverent.

“Then let it stand. A king does not stop his people from worship, and they have chosen well.” He leaned close enough that I could feel his breath stir the flowers. “I only hope they never see how much sweeter you smell than all of this.”

His words curled hot in my chest, and I smacked his arm yfully before fleeing, cheeks burning.

But it wasn’t only flowers.

Soon there were cakes. Small, clumsy ones at first–burnt at the edges, too much honey, uneven slices. The kind that spoke of children’s hands or elders‘ trembling attempts. Then finer ones,yered with cream, dusted with sugar. Cakes arrived on trays, wrapped in cloth, carried shyly by boys who bowed too low and women who blushed too hard.

“Careful, Luna,” Audrey muttered one day as I epted yet another te. “If you eat everything they give, you’ll not fit through the manor doors.”

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“Better than being unloved,” I teased her.

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But I listened when she insisted on tasting first, on sniffing each offering like a hound. Francesco had told her more than once: Guard her like your own life. And Audrey obeyed with almost feral devotion.

Still, I confess I grew careless.

Not careless from arrogance, but from the sweetness of it all. From the joy of belonging.

After years of rejection, years of being whispered about, to be cherished by people who had no reason to love me… it softened me.

And perhaps too much.

It happened on the fifth day.

The morning was bright, the sky washed pale blue, and I had gone to the garden with my sketchbook though I drew nothing.

Children found me there, three of them, with a small cake held carefully between their palms. It was lopsided, the icing uneven, and the pride in their faces was so bright I didn’t think twice.

“For you, Luna!” the smallest one chirped.

I smiled, heart swelling. “For me? You made this yourselves?”

They nodded furiously, grinning. I didn’t call for Audrey. I didn’t summon Monica. I simply broke off a piece,ughing when sugar dusted my fingertips, and ate it.

Sweet. A little bitter at the back. But sweet.

I was smiling when the first pain hit.

It mmed into my stomach like a stone, sharp and hot. My smile crumpled. The children’s faces blurred as I doubled over, gagging. My throat burned, bile rising, and I fell to my knees in the dirt.

Mika roared in my head, but her voice was muffled by the poison flooding me. ‘Wolfsbane. Silver. Something worse–move, move!‘

I couldn’t…

My body convulsed, my vision flickering ck.

“LUNA!” Audrey’s voice tore across the garden.

She was there in a heartbeat, shoving the children back, sword drawn as though the cake itself had sprouted

ws.

Monica sprinted from the kitchen, skirts flying, shouting for water, for herbs.

I tried to speak–I’m fine, I’m fine–but all that came was vomit, hot and sour, staining the earth. My hands

shook so hard I couldn’t wipe my mouth. The pain was a wikite now, wearing through every wor

Then the world shook with a different fire.

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Francesco.

I felt him before I saw him, the bond ripping open with his furyi, /i

The air thickened, heat pressing down, and then he was there, storming through the garden like a god of old. bHis /beyes zed darkened, his chest heaved, and blood–fresh, hot–will wreaked bhis /bhands from training,

“Eine!” He dropped beside me, hauling me into his arms. I tried to push bhim /baway, not wanting bhim /bto touch the bfilth/bb, /bbut he only held tighter. “Who did this! His voice was not a questionb. /bIt was a death sentence waiting for a name.

Audrey knelt, sword still in hand. “Cake. From the children. She ate-

His roar split the sky.

Birds exploded from the trees.

The children screamed and cried.

Even Monica stumbled back, clutching her satchel fn213b Official source is fι?dnοvel/fn213b

I clutched his shirt, fighting through the haze. “Francesco, stopb. /bIt isn’t–don’t-*

But he wasn’t hearing me. His Lycan power surged, the ground trembling. Marlow came barreling bin /bwith warriors, skidding to a halt at the sight. His eyes widened; he’d seen Francesco in rage before, but not like this.

“Alpha!” he barked, as if reminding him he was king, not beast.

Francesco’s head snapped up, teeth bared. His eyes burned with murder. For a moment bI /bthought he would unleash it all–burn the garden, tear the walls down, ughter anyone in reach.

And then the bond tugged. Hard.

I forced myself upright in his arms, though pain knifed through me. “Francesco… My.. Love… Look at me!!”

His gaze dropped, wild, unfocused.

“Look at me!” I grabbed his face with both trembling hands, forcing his golden eyes onto mine. My tears burned, but I held steady. “I’m here. I’m alive. Don’t give them what they want.”

His breath came ragged, chest heaving like a man choking on fire.

But slowly, slowly, the ze dimmed.

His grip tightened around me, desperate, as though he might anchor himself through me alone.

“Eine….” he whispered, voice cracked. “My mate. My Luna. They dared-”

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“I know,” I cut him off, swallowing bile. “But if you rage, if you burn, you’ll prove them right. They want to see that I am your weakness. Don’t let them.”

The words cost me everything, but I said them.

And he heard.

Francesco closed his eyes, forehead pressing to mine.

His arms trembled around me, but he held.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, deadly calm. “Alfonso.

The Beta was there instantly, face pale.

“Send word to Florence,” Francesco ordered. “Now. Bring Lira. Run the wolves to bone if you must. Shees. Today.”

Alfonso bowed sharply and vanished.

Monica knelt, pressing a cloth to my lips. “Luna, spit what you can. Don’t swallow.”

I obeyed weakly, coughing, shaking.

Audrey hovered, de still drawn, eyes darting for threats no one else could see.

Marlow cursed under his breath, directing soldiers to secure the grounds.

Francesco never let me go. His voice stayed in my ear, steady and soft, even as his body shook with rage. “You’ll be all right, amore mio. I swear it. I’ll bring the world down before I let it take you.”

And through the pain, through the bitter taste on my tongue, I knew the truth: this was no ident. No careless gift. This was a strike aimed at his heart, through me.

They thought to prove me his weakness.

But they had no idea how strong love could make him.