Luna No More

The old prophecy was written in blood. Not ink. Not stone. Blood. Long before the modern packs existed, before Alphas ruled territories and before Lycans vanished into myth, a dying queen spoke her final words beneath a crimson moon. The kingdom was burning around her. The palace walls collapsed. Warriors screamed. Children cried. The scent of blood filled the air. The queen held her newborn daughter close. Her golden eyes glowed with ancient power. "The line will survive." The enemy king laughed. "You are the last." The queen smiled. "No." The baby stirred. Silver light flashed briefly across the infant's skin. The enemy king's smile vanished. "The heir lives." The queen kissed her daughter's forehead. Then she whispered the words that would echo through centuries. "When the moon rejects its daughter..." Her eyes lifted toward the heavens. "...the throne will reclaim its queen." Moments later, the palace fell. History declared the royal bloodline extinct. The prophecy was forgotten. The world moved on. But prophecies never truly die. They wait. Patiently. For the right moment. For the right person. For the right betrayal. And centuries later, under another moon, destiny finally awakened. Her name was Isabella Blackwood. And she had no idea the world was about to change.