The Alphas Triplets

The Moon’s Memory - Part 1

The relics changed everything.

Even locked away, I could feel them-three quiet heartbeats under the floorboards, each one pulsing in rhythm with ours. It’s wasn’t noise, not exactly; more like a memory trying to breathe again.

Days passed. We said nothing to father or Mother. Lilly spent her time sketching the symbols we’d seen; James trained until exhaustion. I stayed close to the relics. The dagger’s presence pressed against my thoughts, sharp and insistent. Sometimes, in the half-light before dawn, I swore I heard it whisper my name.

The journal waited on my desk. Every night I told myself I wouldn’t open it again. Every night I did.

At first, it was just words-elegant script fading across the parchment. Then the letters began to shift, forming shapes: towers, wolves, stars. The silver thread that bound the spine shimmered like it was alive. When I traced one line with my finger, warmth slid through me and the room fell away.

I was standing in the same black-stone temple from the vision, only this time the air smelled of rain and iron. The First Luna stood at the alter, her hands covered in blood. Around her lay fallen wolves-her warriors, maybe her family. The red moon hung low about the roofless temple, spilling its color across her silver gown.

“Why show me this?” I asked.

Her voice was soft, distant, like someone speaking through a dream. “Because memory must live in a vessel. And mine has chosen you.”

“ I don’t want to be your vessel,” I said. “ I have my own life.”

“You think this is choice?” Her smile was sorrow, not mockery. “The Moon gives only purpose. Choice is the illusion we wrap around it.”

I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t obey. The vision tightened, pressing against my mind. Images flickered-her mate’s face, the war, the moment she raised the dagger and whispered words older than language. Power poured from her hands like light from a wound.

“ I swore upon the Moon that my blood would guard her light,” she said . “But I did not understand the price.”

When the vision broke, I was back in my room, gasping. The journal lay open, it’s pages blank. The dagger sat beside it, glimmering faintly, as if it had shared the memory too. My mark burned hot under my skin.

A soft knock came at the door. “Jennie?”

Dominic.

I hesitated, then opened it. He stood in the hall, hair damp from rain, eyes shadowed with sleeplessness.

“You haven’t been rest,” he said quietly.

“Neither have you.”

He stepped inside, gaze falling on the journal.

“ That book,” he said, voice low. “ It smells of old magic.”

“ It’s not magic,” I whispered. “It’s memory.”

His expression darkened. “ That’s worse.”

I closed the cover gently. “I need to understand what she’s trying to show me.”

“You’re chasing a ghost,” he said. “And ghosts don’t care who they drag down with them.”

The bond between us thrummed, electric and fragile. For a moment I wanted to argue, but his concern cut deeper than anger. He reached for my wrist, his thumb brushing the edge of my mark.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said.

I nodded, though the lie sat heavy on my tongue. “ I promise.”

After he left, I sat beside the window, moonlight spilling across the floor. The journal glowed faintly even closed. I should have been afraid. Instead, I felt the pull again-the same quiet voice beneath my thoughts, whispering, Remember.