Blood of the Last Moon

The moon wept the night the world burned. Her tears fell as silver rain upon a dying Earth, shimmering over cities that once reached for the heavens and now lay broken, swallowed by flame. Towers collapsed like the bones of forgotten gods; oceans boiled with the fury of storms that knew no master. The skies—once filled with the hum of machines—were torn apart by light and fire. Humanity, in all its pride, had finally devoured itself. They called it the Fall, though there were no witnesses left to name it. Only the wind carried whispers of what was lost—the laughter of children turned to ash, the echo of prayers unanswered, the silence that followed when the last human heart stopped beating. But in that silence, something ancient stirred. From the charred forests and ruined plains, they came: wolves, eyes aglow with moonlight, voices raised in haunting song. They were not mere beasts—they were something reborn, touched by the divine breath of the Moon Goddess, Selene. In the age before the Fall, Selene had watched over humankind with boundless love, gifting them dreams, tides, and light in the darkest night. But as centuries passed, the hearts of men turned cold. They stripped her forests bare, poisoned her rivers, and silenced the wild. When the final war came—when men lit the sky ablaze and called it progress—Selene turned her face away. Her sorrow became fury, her tears became power. She withdrew her blessing from the race she once adored and gave it instead to those who had never forsaken her—the wolves, the eternal children of the wild. Under her weeping light, the wolves rose anew. Flesh melted into shadow and bone into grace, until they walked the Earth as both wolf and man—the Children of Selene. Shifters, bound by moonlight, guardians of what remained. Yet even in her mercy, the Goddess left a warning—a prophecy whispered into the wind before she vanished into the stars: “When the moon bleeds red, the Last Blood shall rise. Born of the forgotten, carrying both sin and salvation. One will love her. One will betray her. And through her choice, the moon shall be reborn… or fall forever.” Time moved like tides under silver light. Centuries washed away the memory of humankind. Their bones turned to dust, their cities to myth. Among the packs, humans became bedtime stories told to wolf pups, tales of fragile, greedy creatures who once ruled the world and lost it to their own hunger. But not all was gone. Beneath the ruins of the old world—beneath cathedrals of glass and steel, beneath the sleeping earth—something still lived. A pulse. A breath. A heartbeat stubborn as hope itself. The wolves did not know it. The Goddess did not speak of it. But the moon… the moon remembered. And on the night her light turned crimson once more, she would remember everything—her lost children, her grief, and the one who carried both her curse and her mercy. The Last Blood was stirring. And the moon was waiting.