The Abandoned Luna's Journey to Power (by Emily Reed) novel Chapter 184

Chapter 184 The Truth on the Page

Cindy POV:

I forced myself to lift my head.

Astra was still writing.

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His wrist drooped again and again from exhaustion. I told him to rest, but he stubbornly shook his head, clenched his fist to encourage himself, and kept going.

The truth surfaced little by little through those ugly, trembling words.

“That noon, everyone was asleep. I wanted to go to the academy to find you.”

“I let Chandler wear my clothes and sleep in my bed. I climbed the wall and left.”

My entire body went cold.

Chandler … the young Omega servant, about the same size as Astra.

So that was it.

No wonder the numbers matched back then. No wonder the burned body was holding Astra’s dagger and necklace.

Chandler had died in his place.

That poor child had taken Astra’s place-and was the last thing keeping me from the truth.

Astra kept writing, his handwriting getting messier as his strength clearly ran out.

“On the road, someone hit my head. When I woke up, it was a dark room. Many kids.

“I didn’t listen. I tried to run. They broke my leg.”

He pointed to his twisted left leg, his expression calm, as if it didn’t belong to him.

“They made me drink medicine. If I didn’t, bugs bit inside my body. Very painful.

“They smashed the big kids’ fingers. I wore Chandler’s clothes. I was small. They didn’t smash mine.”

I looked at his still-deformed fingers. Even without being smashed, years of labor and frostbite had already destroyed them.

“Later, I heard people say Silverpeak Pack was gone. All dead.”

At this point, Astra stopped.

He looked up at me, deep fear and lingering terror in his eyes.

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15:27 Wed, Jan 21 MG

Chapter 184 The Truth on the Page

His lips moved. Then he wrote one final line that cut straight through my heart:

“I thought you were dead, too.”

That was the deepest despair.

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For three years, the thought of “looking for Aunt Cindy” kept him alive. Then he heard the news of the massacre and believed I was dead as well.

What kind of hopelessness was that?

A child, only a few years old, with a broken leg, a ruined voice, poisoned inside, begging in a foreign land.

He believed his entire clan was gone, and he was the only one left in the world.

And yet, he survived.

He lived on under the grip of that cursed drug addiction, under the traffickers’ whips, surviving like a walking corpse.

He specifically wrote about that drug.

He said that if he didn’t take it, the pain would rip through his whole body, like ants chewing at his bones.

For that one dose, he had to beg. He had to crawl and bark like a dog.

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