The Rise Of The Spectacular Luna

The candles on the chocolate cake flicker in the dim light of the kitchen, nineteen tiny flames dancing like spirits summoned from another world. Ella Gold stares at them, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, as if exhaling might extinguish more than just the wax and wick before her. "Make a wish, sweetheart," her adoptive mother, Margaret, says softly, her weathered hands resting on Ella's shoulders. The touch feels heavier tonight, weighted with something Ella can't quite name—worry, perhaps, or the kind of love that comes tinged with fear. Ella closes her eyes, but instead of birthday wishes, she finds herself drowning in the same strange longing that's been haunting her for weeks. It's a pull she can't explain, like homesickness for a place she's never been, or grief for someone she's never lost. The feeling sits in her chest like a stone, cold and unmoving. *I wish I knew who I really am.* She blows out the candles in one breath, and the kitchen plunges into semi-darkness. Only the soft glow from the hallway light remains, casting long shadows that seem to reach for her with grasping fingers. "Happy birthday, Ella," her adoptive father, David, murmurs, but his voice carries an odd strain, as if the words cost him something precious. They eat cake in relative silence, the conversation stilted and careful. Ella catches her parents exchanging glances—the kind of loaded looks that speak of secrets shared and burdens carried. She's noticed these silent communications more frequently lately, especially when she asks about her birth parents or why she has no baby pictures from before age three. "I think I'll head to bed early," Ella announces, pushing her half-eaten slice away. The chocolate tastes like ash in her mouth, and her skin feels too tight, as if she's outgrowing herself from the inside out. "Sweet dreams, honey," Margaret whispers, kissing her forehead. Her lips linger a moment too long, and when she pulls away, Ella glimpses something that looks suspiciously like tears in her eyes. Upstairs in her bedroom, Ella changes into her favorite pajamas—soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hangs loose on her slender frame. She catches her reflection in the dresser mirror and pauses, tilting her head. Has her face always been this angular? These cheekbones this sharp? Her brown eyes seem larger tonight, almost luminous in the lamp light, and her black hair appears to shimmer with an undertone she's never noticed before. She shakes her head, attributing the strange observations to birthday melancholy, and crawls under her covers. The sheets feel cool against her skin, which has been running unusually warm all day. She's probably coming down with something—that would explain the restlessness, the odd sensations, the way colors seem more vivid and sounds more acute. Sleep comes surprisingly quickly, wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. But this sleep is different, deeper than usual, pulling her down into dreams that feel more real than waking life. *She stands in a moonlit forest, but this isn't like any woodland from her waking world. The trees tower impossibly high, their silver bark gleaming like metal in the ethereal light. The ground beneath her bare feet is soft with moss that glows faintly green, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.* *The moon above isn't the pale white orb she knows. This moon burns crimson, its surface rippling like liquid fire across the star-drunk sky. Its light bathes everything in shades of red and shadow, making the forest both beautiful and terrifying.* *She's wearing a flowing white dress that moves around her like liquid moonlight, and when she looks down at her hands, they're pale as pearl and elegant in ways her real hands have never been. Her hair falls in a cascade of midnight silk shot through with threads of actual silver that catch the moon's glow.* *A howl echoes through the trees—not the lonely call of a single wolf, but a chorus of voices raised in harmony. The sound sends shivers down her spine, but not from fear. From recognition. From longing so acute it steals her breath.* *She follows the sound deeper into the forest, her feet finding paths that seem to appear beneath her steps. The howling grows louder, more urgent, and she breaks into a run, the white dress streaming behind her like wings.* *The trees part to reveal a clearing where dozens of wolves gather beneath the crimson moon. But these aren't ordinary wolves. They're massive, their fur ranging from pure silver to deepest black, and their eyes glow with intelligence that's distinctly human. When they see her, they fall silent, heads bowing in reverence that makes her heart race.* *At the center of the pack stand two wolves larger than the rest. One has a coat like liquid shadow, with eyes the color of midnight sky shot through with stars. The other gleams silver-white under the moon, his gaze the deep red of fresh blood or burning coals.* *They approach her slowly, gracefully, and she feels no fear—only a bone-deep certainty that she belongs here, with them, under this impossible moon. When they reach her, they shift their heads to either side of her, and she feels their warm breath on her skin, their presence completing something inside her she didn't know was broken.* *"You've come home," a voice whispers, though she can't tell which wolf speaks, or if the words come from inside her own mind. "You've finally come home."* *She reaches out to touch them, to confirm their reality, but as her fingers brush against silver fur—* Ella jolts awake, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for freedom. The dream clings to her consciousness with unusual tenacity, refusing to fade the way dreams usually do. She can still smell the forest—pine and earth and something wild and clean. She can still feel the wolves' warm breath on her skin, still hear the echo of that voice saying she'd come home. She sits up, pushing her sweat-dampened hair back from her face, and that's when she notices it. Her arms. Four parallel scratches run from her left elbow to her wrist, raised and red against her pale skin. They're too straight to be accidental, too deliberate to be random. They look exactly like claw marks. With trembling fingers, she traces the scratches, wincing at their tenderness. They're real. Absolutely, undeniably real. But that's impossible—she went to bed with unmarked skin, and she's been alone in her locked bedroom all night. She checks her right arm and finds three more scratches, shallower but equally distinct, along her forearm. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps as she examines her skin in the dim light filtering through her curtains. The marks are too precise, too purposeful to be self-inflicted during sleep. Ella stumbles to her bathroom and flicks on the harsh fluorescent light. In the unforgiving brightness, the scratches look even more pronounced, the skin around them slightly swollen and warm to the touch. She runs cold water over them, watching the clear liquid turn faintly pink as it washes away traces of blood she hadn't noticed before. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror stops her cold. Her brown eyes look different—larger, more intense, with flecks of gold she's never seen before. Her usually straight black hair has a wave to it, and are those silver threads catching the light, or is she losing her mind? She leans closer to the mirror, her breath fogging the glass, and for just a moment—just one impossible moment—her reflection's eyes flash a brilliant, luminous purple before returning to their familiar brown. Ella backs away from the mirror, her heart racing so fast she feels dizzy. This can't be real. None of this can be real. People don't dream of impossible worlds and wake up with claw marks. They don't see their eyes change color in bathroom mirrors. They don't feel homesick for places that exist only in dreams. But as she returns to her bedroom, the scratches on her arms throbbing with each heartbeat, Ella can't shake the certainty that something fundamental has changed. The dream felt like a memory, the wolves like family, and the crimson moon like a promise. She climbs back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, but sleep feels as distant as that impossible forest. Outside her window, the ordinary white moon hangs in the sky, pale and familiar and utterly mundane compared to the burning orb from her dreams. As she lies there, staring at the ceiling and trying to rationalize the unexplainable, one thought circles through her mind with relentless persistence: *You've come home.* But home from where? And why do the scratches on her arms feel less like wounds and more like a calling card from a world she's only just beginning to remember?