Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 89

89 The Dungeon Remembers

James’s POV

The crowd finally broke.

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Not because they were satisfied, because grief eventually runs out of breath. People drifted away in small clusters, holding each other, dragging their feet, carrying the weight of the dead like stones tied to their ribs. The chanting faded. The questions didn’t. I could still feel them behind my back like eyes.

Where were you?

Why wasn’t she here?

Why are we still not safe?

When will we join the Union?

Who did this?

I didn’t have answers for the ones that mattered most.

But I could start with one.

I turned as the last of the pack members dispersed and locked onto Nixon across the grounds. His posture was hard, shoulders squared, gaze scanning. He looked like a man who had been holding a line with his teeth and still wasn’t sure if the Alpha behind him would stab him in the back.

“Nixon,” I called.

He approached without hurry. No eagerness. No warmth. Just duty.

“Alpha,” he said.

“Prepare the prisoners,” I ordered. “Separate them. Strip them of weapons. Chain them properly. I want them awake and aware.”

Nixon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Understood,” he replied.

I didn’t soften it. I didn’t explain. This wasn’t a request. This was the first thing I’d said all day that felt like control.

“And Nixon,” I added, voice low, “I will be the one asking the questions.”

He studied me for a beat, then nodded.

<80 The Dungeon Remembers

“Yes, Alpha.”

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He turned and moved away, already barking orders to guards. Warriors shifted into motion. The

dungeon staff, those who ran the lowest part of the packhouse, came alive like they’d been waiting for

this moment.

I stood for a moment and watched it unfold. The pack needed action. They needed blood on someone else’s hands. They needed certainty.

I needed information.

I waited in my office only long enough to gather what I required: my temper, my authority, and the part of my mind that could stay cold when another wolf begged.

A link brushed my mind like a knock on a door.

Ready, Alpha. Nixon’s voice.

I didn’t respond with words.

1 just moved.

Down the corridors. Past guards. Past wounded pack members sleeping in corners. Past the smell of smoke that still clung to the walls.

Then down again.

Steps.

Stone.

Cold air.

The dungeon was where light went to die.

The moment the stairs gave way to that corridor, my throat tightened, not because the place was frightening, but because the memory of Arya lived here like a stain that would never wash off

I didn’t slow down.

I couldn’t

Not if I wanted to get this done

Two guards opened the iron door at the end of the corridor. The sound of it scraping on hinges was ugly, like the building itself hated what it held.

< 89 The Dungeon Remembers

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The dungeon interior was lit by harsh lamps mounted high, enough light to see faces, not enough to make anyone feel safe. The air carried sweat, blood, damp stone, old iron.

And then there were the sounds.

Low groans

Chains shifting.

Breathing.

One sharp sob that someone tried to swallow.

The prisoners were already in place, two men, both battered, both stripped of weapons, both chained

to separate rings bolted into opposite walls.

Nixon stood with Devin and Archie near the centre, arms crossed, face unreadable. A pair of guards

flanked each prisoner. Another guard held a bucket of water and rags, like they were preparing to keep

them alive long enough to talk.

Nixon’s eyes met mine.

“They’re separated,” he said. “They can’t see each other. They can’t hear each other clearly either. We’ve got men posted in the corridor to block sound.”

Good.

I stepped forward slowly, letting my boots carry sound across the stone.

Both prisoners lifted their heads when they heard me.

One had dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bloodshot, jaw swollen. The other was blond and

lean, breathing through a split lip, shoulders shaking with fatigue.

They didn’t look like high-ranking warriors.

They looked like hired blades.

Disposable.

That made my anger spike hotter.

Because disposable men didn’t choose targets like mine without someone with power pointing.

I stopped in the centre of them.

“Take the blond one,” I said to Nixon. “I’ll take the dark-haired one.”

<89 The Dungeon Remembers

Nixon’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t argue.

He motioned to Devin and Archie.

They moved toward the blond prisoner, flanking Nixon like a wall.

I approached the dark-haired one.

Up close, I could smell him properly.

Northern scent, sharp and cold beneath the blood. Not from my region.

Interesting.

He lifted his chin as I neared.

Defiance.

Even chained.

He spat blood to the side, smile crooked.

“You’re the Alpha,” he rasped.

I didn’t answer.

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I turned slightly, took a short blade from the guard beside me, not a ceremonial weapon, not my Alpha

blade, just a functional knife.

I held it loosely as I studied him.

“You attacked my pack,” I said, voice level.

He didn’t blink.

“So?” he said.

A grunt came from the other prisoner as Nixon slammed him against the wall I didn’t look away from

mine

I tilted my head slightly.

“You killed my people,” I continued.

The prisoner’s mouth twitched, as if he found that amusing.

<89 The Dungeon Remembers

“You weren’t there,” he said. “Your people screamed real pretty though.”

A guard beside me tensed, ready to hit him.

I raised a hand slightly, stopping him.

This wasn’t for the guards.

This was for me.

I stepped closer until I was within striking distance.

The prisoner’s eyes flicked to the knife.

Then back to my face, stubborn.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

He laughed, hoarse.

“Your mother,” he sneered.

I moved without warning.

My fist slammed into his jaw.

The sound cracked through the dungeon.

His head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth.

He groaned, shoulders jerking, chains clanking.

I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back up.