Episode One: The Wolf Beneath the Moon
The wolf had gold in its eyes, and it was standing in Jiara Blean’s bedroom.
It was larger than any wolf she had ever seen, its black fur shining as though it had been dipped in oil. Behind it, a moon hung low in the sky, glowing gold around the edges. The clouds beneath it were red. Not pink, not orange. Red, like something had opened a wound across the heavens.
Jiara tried to step backward, but her feet would not move. The wolf watched her with an intelligence that made her skin prickle. It did not snarl. It did not bare its teeth. It simply looked at her as though she had arrived late to an appointment it had been keeping for years.
“Run,” a voice whispered.
She could not tell whether the word came from the wolf or from the darkness behind it. A tall figure stood beneath the trees at the edge of the strange moonlit clearing. His face was hidden, but a silver ring glinted on his hand. A crescent had been carved into the metal. Jiara knew that ring. Her father wore one just like it.
She reached for him. The wolf lunged. Pain burst across her right shoulder, hot and sudden, and the moon cracked down the middle.
Jiara woke with a gasp, tangled in her sheets. Morning light fell across her room. Her heart pounded so hard that she could feel it in her throat. For several seconds she sat still, staring at the empty space beside her wardrobe, expecting to see gold eyes watching her from the shadows.
Nothing moved. A car passed outside. Downstairs, her mother hummed along to a song on the radio, and her father called out that whoever had finished the orange juice had better confess before breakfast. The ordinary sounds of home slowly pulled Jiara out of the dream.
She pressed her palm to her right shoulder. The small crescent-shaped birthmark there felt strangely warm. She had had it since birth, and usually barely noticed it. Today, the skin around it tingled as if she had slept against a heating pad. She rubbed it until the sensation faded, then told herself she was being ridiculous.
At breakfast, Antrov Blean was in a good mood, which usually meant he was determined to annoy everyone before eight in the morning. He stole a piece of bacon from Jiara’s plate, called her a professional sleep enthusiast, and dodged the napkin she threw at him. Faye watched them with a fond shake of her head. For a few minutes, the house felt exactly as it always had: warm, noisy, and safe.
Then Antrov’s phone rang.
His smile vanished before he checked the screen. He stood and walked toward the back door, answering in a voice too low for Jiara to make out. She heard only fragments: “You said the trail was cold.” Then, after a pause, “No. She knows nothing.”
Jiara looked at her mother. Faye had stopped cutting fruit. Her knife hovered above the board, and the colour had drained from her face. When Antrov returned, he slipped his phone into his pocket and tried to smile. It did not reach his eyes.
“Who was that?” Jiara asked. “Work.” “Your work usually involves people complaining about paperwork, not sounding like they’re threatening you.” “Maybe I’m finally important enough to be threatened,” he said, but the joke fell flat.
Three knocks sounded at the front door. Antrov went still. It was a tiny reaction, barely a second, but Jiara saw it. He looked toward the hallway as if he had heard something much worse than a visitor.
“Stay here,” he told her.
Of course, Jiara followed him. She stopped just short of the hallway and peered through the narrow window beside the front door. A boy stood on the porch in a black jacket, his dark hair falling in loose curls over his forehead. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and probably a few years older than she was. His eyes were a pale, striking grey.
When he looked through the glass and saw Jiara, the expression on his face changed. His mouth parted. He looked less like a boy waiting for someone to open the door and more like someone who had just seen a ghost.
Antrov opened the door only halfway. The boy spoke quickly, too quietly for Jiara to hear. Her father’s reply was sharp. “I told you to stay away from my family.” “And I told you they were coming,” the boy answered. His gaze slipped past Antrov to Jiara. “You can’t hide her from all of them.”
Antrov stepped outside and shut the door behind him. Jiara pressed closer to the glass, trying to hear. The boy glanced toward the window again, and this time his lips moved slowly enough for her to understand.
She’s the one.
The lights flickered. A low howl rose from somewhere beyond the house, followed by another, then another. Jiara’s shoulder burned. She grabbed it through her shirt as a wave of pressure filled her ears.
Outside, the boy backed away from the porch. His eyes were fixed on Jiara’s shoulder, although he could not possibly see the birthmark through her clothes. He looked frightened. Then he turned toward the trees, as if something had called him.
Antrov came back inside and locked the door. He drew the curtains with shaking hands. Faye appeared at the kitchen entrance, staring at him as if she had just heard a sentence she had dreaded for years.
“They found us,” she whispered.
Jiara looked from one parent to the other. “Who found us?” Neither answered. Then something struck the front window so hard that the glass trembled in its frame.
On the other side of the glass, two golden eyes opened in the morning light.
