On the continent of Ellen, shrouded in moonshadow, werewolves lurk like phantoms among men—by day blending as kin and neighbors, by night ripping flesh and devouring souls. Village lamps flicker, fear spreads like plague, and the sole hope rests on the shoulders of an Eastern orphan. Dill—named for the handful of cheap spice that bought her at the harbor. Purchased by the great witches as an “investment,” her frail frame wrapped in a tattered cloak, yet her eyes burned with a fire unfit for a child. The witches taught her spells, herbs, and star-lore, but never how to face human hearts. She was sent to her first village: Mistcrow Town. There, humans cowered behind wooden walls, praying to gods long silent. Dill swore an oath: unmask the werewolf, prove magic no lie, and win their faith. She thought herself ready. On the first day, she rebuffed a golden-haired youth’s flirtation. He smiled like sunlight, yet something lurked deep in his gaze. She shook her head politely and walked away. When night fell, a knock sounded. The door cracked open, moonlight spilling in, illuminating that familiar yet alien face—golden slit pupils narrowing to needles in the dark, canine teeth glinting faintly at the corner of his lips. “So now,” he whispered, voice honeyed yet laced with blood, “will you still say no?” Dill’s heart nearly stopped. She recognized those eyes—from a fleeting glance in the marketplace that morning. She had dismissed it as illusion. Now illusion bared fangs. She was no hunter, yet thrust into the hunt. The werewolf hid not in forests, but in her doubts, her solitude, her self-righteousness. Dill must find a third path between terror and faith: not to become a hero, but to become her own protagonist. With fledgling magic, a shattered past, and an unyielding heart, she will tear away the werewolf’s mask—and her own weakness. Every heartbeat is a countdown. Every breath, a wager. In the long night of Mistcrow Town, she will learn: the true monster is never only at the door.