Bound to the Silvermoon Goddess

Chapter 1

Hailey

The first thing I taste is iron.

It coats my tongue, warm and metallic, before I even realise I'm breathing through my mouth. The second thing is dirt, dry, powdery dust kicked up by claws and paws and boots, now clinging to the back of my throat.

The third thing is fear. Not mine. Theirs.

Blood splatters across my cheek as the rogue's head strikes the forest floor with a dull, wet thud. Its body folds a heartbeat later, collapsing in a boneless heap at my feet.

For a moment, there's only the ringing in my ears and the thud, thud, thud of my pulse, like someone pounding on a door from the inside of my chest ready to crack my ribs open from the inside.

I drag the back of my hand over my face. All I manage to do is smear the blood further, leaving a dark streak across my skin. It's still warm.

"Disgusting," I mutter to myself, scrunching my nose.

The forest around us is quiet in that unnatural way that happens only after violence. No birds. No wind whispering through the branches. Just the faint ticking sounds of cooling bodies and the distant crackle of the bonfire pit burning at the border of our pack lands.

Ironclaw Pack lies within the ancient Western Kingdom of forests and rivers, land once known to hold the most elite warriors in existence. Legends speak of wolves who could scale trees in a single breath, guardians of balance whose loyalty was stronger than steel. These forests were once the heart of unity between the great clans, a place where strength was measured not only by power, but by honour.

Time, however, does not spare even the strongest kingdoms.

The towering trees still stand as silent witnesses to history, their roots tangled deep in stories long forgotten.

Their branches stretch endlessly toward the sky, whispering echoes of a power that once ruled the world... a power that now lingers only in legend.

There were four rogues to start. Now there's only one.

The last wolf stands several paces away, half swallowed by shadow beneath the trees. The fading light of sunset filters through the branches above, streaking the ground in uneven stripes of gold and black. The rogue's mangy fur catches the light in dull patches, revealing the scars carved deep into its hide.

It breathes too fast. Its ribs expand and collapse like a broken bellows, air rasping through its throat. And the smell, oh Goddess. Rogues always smell awful.

A sour mixture of rot, dried blood, and unwashed fur clings to the creature like a second skin. It's the scent of wolves who have abandoned the pack bond, wolves who have lost the guidance of the Moon Goddess and slipped into something feral and twisted. Its eyes are the worst part. Rogues don't have the same golden or amber warmth as the pack wolves. These eyes are a washed out yellow, filmed over with madness and hunger.

Its eyes lock onto me. The madness flickers behind them.

The rogue begins pacing slowly in a half circle, claws scraping softly across the dirt. Muscles twitch beneath its patchy coat as its lips curl back, exposing a line of crooked teeth stained dark with old blood.

It's deciding. Fight, flee... or die.

It doesn't know I've already chosen for it.

"Just you and me, buddy," I murmur, more out of habit than confidence. My voice sounds too loud in the stillness.

"Let's make this quick, yeah?"

I sink lower, knees bending, weight balanced over the balls of my feet. The forest floor presses cool against the soles of my boots. My sword is solid and reassuring in my hand, the leather grip worn smooth from years of training. The metal catches what little light there is, a thin silver promise.

Weapons have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Before school. Before chores. Before anything else.

My shoulders ache, and there's a throbbing spot just above my right hip where one of the earlier rogues caught me with a wild swipe. Tomorrow it'll be an ugly bruise. Right now it's a problem for future Hailey.

Present Hailey has a different one.

The rogue's ears flick forward. Its gaze sharpens. Somewhere behind those cloudy yellow eyes, instinct finally makes a decision.

The forest blurs as the wolf launches toward me, jaws wide, teeth glinting in the fading light. I twist sideways instinctively, already calculating the angle I need to drive my blade between its ribs. The world narrows to motion, muscle, fur and teeth.

It's fast, but I've lived on the training grounds since I was old enough to hold a wooden sword. My body moves almost before I tell it to. I twist to the side, intending to drive my sword into its ribs, already calculating the weight and the angle where we'll hit the ground.

But I never get the chance.

Something bigger, heavier, and much faster slams into the rogue from the right with the force of an eighteen-wheeler truck.

A blur of brown fur. A crunch loud enough to make my teeth vibrate. The rogue's body snaps sideways, slamming into a tree trunk with such force that bark explodes off the wood. The sound of bones breaking ripples through the air like ice cracking on a lake.

The rogue yelps once, high, sharp, and panicked, and then goes limp beneath the massive wolf now pinning it down.

I skid to a halt, dirt grinding under my boots, chest heaving. For half a second my brain offers up the ridiculous thought that I should be offended. That was my kill.

My heart is racing so hard it's almost painful. I turn, sword up again, scanning the tree line for a fifth rogue, a sixth, anything that might have taken advantage of the distraction.

Nothing.

Just the one oversized i***t who couldn't let me finish what I started.

The brown wolf steps back from the ruined body and pads towards me, movements smooth and unhurried, as if he didn't just slam another creature into a tree hard enough to break it.

I know that walk. I know that wolf.

"Easy there, little warrior," he rumbles, only it's not a rumble anymore, it's a familiar human voice, because he's already shifting as he approaches. Fur recedes. Bones shorten, twist, reform. By the time he reaches me, Adrian is standing there in his usual patrol shorts, bare chest rising and falling, shaking out his arms like he's loosening up after training.

He grins at me, all casual, as if we're just bumping into each other at breakfast. "It's just me."

"Yeah, I noticed," I say, letting my sword drop to my side. "You stole my kill."

Adrian's gaze sweeps the clearing. Four bodies on the ground. One still steaming slightly from where he hit it.

Hackles of torn grass and disturbed earth all around us.

"You really did a number on them this time," he says, one brow lifting. "Leave some for the rest of us next time?"

"Border patrol was short staffed tonight" I say with a shrug that tries very hard to be nonchalant.

"They came over, I handled it."

The truth is, my hands are still shaking, not visibly, not enough for someone like Adrian to call me on it, but

enough that I feel the tremor where the sword hilt touches my palm.

The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind a buzzing emptiness that always feels a little too much like the thing I've been missing my whole life.

Adrian chuckles and, because he's an overpowering menace, reaches out to ruffle my hair.

I jerk my head away, but too late. His fingers catch the messy bun at the back of my head and the few strands

that managed to escape.

"Hey!" I swat at his arm. "Knock it off."

"You're welcome, by the way," he says, completely unbothered. "You didn't need my help, but I wasn't about to let you have all the fun." His grin softens into something fond. "Besides, I still reckon this will be your year."

There it is again.

That phrase everyone likes to toss at me like confetti.

My year.

The year I finally stop being the weird almost eighteen year old with no wolf. The year my bones crack and

rearrange and fur bursts from my skin and an entire missing half of my soul suddenly starts narrating my bad decisions in my head.