The Lost Luna

The night was too quiet. Alpha Marcus felt it before he heard the first cry of alarm, the kind of silence that presses down on a pack’s territory before a storm of death. His wolf stirred restlessly inside him, warning of danger, but he had not expected it to come so swiftly, so mercilessly. The air smelled of smoke and blood. “Marcus!” Selene’s voice was sharp, carrying through the thick walls of the packhouse. The Luna burst into the chamber, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, green eyes wide with fear. In her arms, their daughter stirred, still drowsy from sleep. “They’re here. The rogues… they’ve broken through the northern line.” The Alpha didn’t waste a heartbeat. He reached for his sword, though claws would soon replace steel. Outside, howls echoed—feral, bloodthirsty, unrestrained. Rogues. Wolves without packs, without loyalty, driven by madness and greed. But this was no aimless raid. The attack was too organised, too coordinated. “Take Lyra,” Marcus ordered, his voice gravel deep. “You must get her out.” Selene clutched the child closer. “And leave you? No, Marcus, I won’t—” “Selene!” His command rang like thunder, cutting her protest short. “Our daughter is the future of Mooncrest. If they want her bloodline, they cannot have it. Promise me you’ll run.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded. For just a moment, Marcus allowed himself to cup his daughter’s tiny cheek. Lyra’s eyes fluttered open, green as her mother’s, innocent to the horror unravelling around her. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Moon Goddess, protect her,” he whispered. Then he was gone, shifting in a blur of bone and fur, his great wolf form leaping into the chaos outside. The packhouse shook with the impact of bodies colliding, claws raking wood, fangs tearing flesh. Selene ran, every instinct screaming to hold her ground beside her mate, but she had sworn to protect Lyra. Down the hidden passage she fled, the stone walls echoing with distant screams. When she reached the narrow mouth of the forest, she paused only once, pressing her lips to Lyra’s hair. “Forgive us, little one. Live. That is all we ask of you.” She laid the child gently in the hollow of a tree, swaddled in a woollen blanket, heart breaking as she stepped back. Lyra whimpered, reaching tiny hands toward her, but Selene turned away. If she hesitated, she would never leave. The rogues came. Dark shapes moved between the trees, their eyes glowing with madness. Selene drew her last breath as Luna and shifted, her silver wolf blazing in the moonlight. She met them head-on, fighting with the desperation of a mother who had already chosen death. Lyra’s cries were swallowed by the roar of battle. Dawn came sluggishly, grey and heavy, settling over the forest like ash. Birds did not sing. Smoke drifted in the distance where the Mooncrest pack had fallen, their proud territory reduced to ruin. A hunter moved carefully through the underbrush, his bow slung across his back. Mr. Robin had lived on the outskirts of these woods for years, far enough from the packs to be left alone, close enough to respect their boundaries. He had heard the howls in the night, but by morning silence had claimed everything. Curiosity—and unease—drew him closer. That was when he heard it. A thin, pitiful cry. He followed the sound until he found the hollow tree. Inside, wrapped in a blanket, lay a little girl no more than four years old. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her tiny fists clenched around nothing. She looked up at him with wide, terrified green eyes. Robin froze. A child? Out here, alone? He looked around quickly, half-expecting a desperate mother to come rushing out of the trees, but no one came. No scent of fresh life lingered, only blood and smoke. “Easy, little one,” he murmured, crouching down. “I won’t hurt you.” The girl whimpered, curling away from him. Her small body trembled violently, as if she had cried all night. Robin’s heart clenched. He had seen wolves before, though never this close. He knew what she was by her scent, faint but undeniable. She was not human. But she was also alone. Slowly, he lifted her into his arms. She weighed almost nothing, her blanket damp with dew. She pressed her face into his shoulder, clinging to him with surprising strength. Robin stood in the stillness of the ruined forest, torn between fear and pity. To leave her was to sentence her to death. To take her was to invite danger. And yet, when her small hand fisted in his shirt, the decision was made. “Alright, then,” he whispered. “You’ll come home with me.” ⸻ His wife, Margaret, nearly dropped the loaf of bread she was kneading when she saw him walk through the door with a child in his arms. “Robin! Saints alive—what is this?” “She was in the woods,” he explained quickly. “No parents, no pack. The rogues must’ve taken them.” Margaret’s face softened instantly. She took the child, cradling her against her flour-dusted dress. “Poor lamb… oh, Robin, she’s terrified.” “She’s a wolf,” he said quietly. Margaret glanced down at the girl, at her innocent eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Then she shook her head firmly. “No. She’s a child. And she needs us.” Robin could not argue. From that day forward, Lyra became theirs. They raised her as their own, never speaking of the wolves, never telling her what she truly was. To the village, she was simply the hunter’s adopted daughter, a quiet but bright child with hair the colour of fire and eyes like emerald glass. Years passed, and the memory of that bloody night faded into whispers carried by the wind. But some truths cannot be buried forever. On certain nights, when the moon was fat and silver, Lyra would wake trembling, her sheets soaked with sweat. Dreams—no, nightmares—haunted her. Flashes of glowing eyes, the taste of iron in the air, the sound of howls echoing through smoke. She could never explain them, not even to her mother, who would hush her and rock her back to sleep. But the older she grew, the stronger the visions became. And with them came changes. Her senses sharpened—she could hear the c***k of twigs from across the yard, smell the rain before it fell. Once, when a boy from the village tried to tug her auburn hair, she shoved him away without meaning to. He flew back several feet, landing hard, eyes wide with fear. Lyra had laughed it off nervously, but inside she was frightened. Something was wrong with her. Something she couldn’t control. Mr. Robin watched her carefully, though he said nothing. Sometimes he would catch her gazing into the forest as if it called to her. And though he loved her as his own, a quiet dread had taken root in his heart. Because he knew one day, the truth would come for her. And when it did, nothing could stop it.