His Silent Luna (Verity and Felicity) novel Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: FREEDOM?

Verity’s Perspective

The first sound to reach my ears was a gentle, almost soothing hum. Then came the faint but steady thud of footsteps approaching. My mind felt thick and heavy, as if wrapped in a dense fog that pulsed and twisted around my thoughts, refusing to let them break free. Yet, the footsteps grew louder, closer—pulling me back from the haze that had imprisoned me.

Slowly, painfully, my eyelids fluttered open. The blinding light stung my eyes fiercely, but as they adjusted, the face of a woman came into focus. She leaned over me, clad in crisp white linen, a silver emblem gleaming on her collar—the unmistakable uniform of a nurse. Her eyes widened in surprise, then softened into an expression that seemed to carry a hint of relief.

“Oh gods,” she murmured quietly, almost to herself. “She’s awake.”

Without hesitation, she turned and hurried out of the room, the hem of her robes swishing softly behind her. I caught the faint sound of her calling for someone, though the words were lost in a blur. My body ached deeply. My throat burned with a fierce dryness. My skin felt as if it had been scorched by flame and then plunged into icy water.

But I was alive.

For a moment, I lay still, drawing shallow breaths. Each inhale felt like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest, as if a massive anvil rested there. The pain was sharp and relentless as I tried to grasp where I was. The bed beneath me was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, damp stone floor of the dungeon I’d become all too familiar with. The sheets carried a faint scent of lavender, mingled with another fragrance I couldn’t quite place—something comforting, oddly soothing despite my confusion. I turned my head slowly, wincing as a sharp pain shot down my neck, and surveyed the room around me.

This chamber was enormous—far larger than any space I’d ever been allowed to occupy before. Not the cramped tower where I was raised, nor the dark, foul dungeons where rogues had held me captive, nor even this castle’s own grim cells. The walls were hewn from smooth gray stone, but not the cold, unwelcoming kind that made your skin crawl. A grand arched window bathed the room in warm, golden afternoon light, and a gentle breeze stirred the sheer curtains, making them dance softly.

Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting ancient battles, regal crests, and strange winged creatures I didn’t recognize. In one corner, a fireplace carved with intricate images of wolves and fangs held glowing embers, still warm as if the fire had only recently died down. Thick, plush rugs covered the stone floor, muffling footsteps, and an entire wall was lined with a towering bookcase filled with dusty tomes and scrolls that looked untouched for years.

It was… breathtaking.

And yet, terrifying.

This place stirred an unfamiliar sense of comfort deep within me—a warmth and peace that felt foreign after so much pain and darkness. But there was something else, too. A strange scent lingered in the air, one I couldn’t identify but felt hauntingly familiar. Like a half-remembered dream slipping just beyond reach.

The scent grew stronger.

I tensed. The dull ache in my body suddenly felt insignificant compared to the heavy weight pressing down on my chest as I turned my gaze toward the door.

There he stood.

King Cassian Stromfang.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his golden skin seemed kissed by the sun itself. His piercing eyes gleamed like molten gold, framed by thick, dark lashes. His hair was tousled, as if he’d run his hands through it countless times in frustration. He wore a simple black tunic, but there was nothing simple about the way he held himself.

He looked exhausted—like he hadn’t slept in days. Not the all-powerful alpha I’d been thrown in front of on my first day here, nor the stern man who’d come to the dungeon to interrogate me.

He was a storm trapped inside a man’s body—silent and still, yet the air between us crackled with unspoken tension.

Then it hit me.

I recognized that scent.

It was his.

My heart lurched—not from recognition, but from the flood of painful memories. Darkness. A dungeon cell. The sharp sting of betrayal.

He had commanded Kin to torture me.

I instinctively recoiled, pressing myself deeper against the headboard despite the sharp, searing pain that shot through every movement. Fear surged through me like a lightning bolt, electrifying my nerves.

He noticed.

His jaw clenched tightly. Slowly, cautiously, he raised one hand—like a man approaching a wounded animal.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. His voice was low, calm—far gentler than the booming authority of a king. It was the voice of someone trying desperately to earn trust.

But it didn’t work. I kept pulling back until my spine hit the bed frame, my fingers clutching at the sheets as if they were my only lifeline.

He hesitated, and in that brief moment, I saw it.

A flicker of real pain in his eyes.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“There was no trial,” he added. “No investigation. I let my grief and rage cloud my judgment.”

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.”

But his eyes said it all.

“I ordered your imprisonment,” he confessed. “And I allowed things I shouldn’t have. I see that now.”

I looked away, the ache in my chest stretching beyond the physical.

“You’re not her,” he said quietly. “But you bear her face. And that… made you a threat.”

Hearing those words aloud was strange—realizing I’d been punished not for what I’d done, but for the face I wore.

“Your injuries are being treated,” he said after a pause. “You’ll remain in the palace for now… but under supervision.”

Of course.

A cage by any other name was still a cage.

“But it won’t be a dungeon,” he added softly. “Not again.”

I looked at him then, truly looked. And for a fleeting moment, the King was not an alpha, not an enemy, not the man who had allowed me to suffer.

He was just a man.

A weary man. I could see it in his eyes.

“We need to find a way to communicate,” he said finally. “You and I.”