The moon rose wrong that night.
Mira felt it before she saw it.
A pressure settled in her chest as dusk bled into night, heavy and cold, as if the sky itself had leaned closer. The ache from the broken bond had not faded. It had changed. It pulsed now, slow and deliberate, like a warning beat.
She stood at the narrow window of her chamber, fingers curled around the stone edge.
Outside, Silverfang slowed.
Wolves paused mid-step. Guards stopped speaking. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Then the moon crested the mountain ridge.
Gasps echoed through the fortress.
It was not silver.
It was pale blue—bright, sharp, and burning, like ice lit from within.
Mira’s breath caught. Her wolf rose instantly, not in hunger or rage, but in fear.
The Moon is watching, it whispered.
A bell rang
