Chapter 6
741 Words
Elira didn’t know what day it was.
In the cell, in the hall, on the road — time had bled together.
But the sky remembered.
The moon was rising. Full. Massive. Silver light poured through the trees and turned the forest to daylight.
And her blood answered.
Heat rushed beneath her skin. Her bones felt like they were shattering and rebuilding all at once.
Pain tore down her spine, through her arms, into her fingertips.
She gasped and collapsed to her knees in the dirt.
It was her birthday.
Eighteen. The night a wolf shifted for the first time.
She’d never had a ceremony. No cake. No pack. No family.
Just her. Alone. Bleeding from forty lashes.
The shift ripped through her.
Fur burst from her skin. Bones cracked and reshaped. Her senses exploded — she could smell the earth, hear the heartbeat of a rabbit a mile away, see every vein on every leaf.
When it was over, Elira was gone.
In her place stood a wolf.
But not just any wolf.
White. Pure white, like snow untouched by footprints. Larger than any wolf in the Blood Moon Pack. Her fur shimmered faintly, as if moonlight was woven into it.
The elders used to tell stories.
_"A white wolf comes once in a generation. The Moon Goddess’s own. An omen. War or peace. Doom or salvation. When you see white, the world changes."_
They were considered myths. Extinct. Most packs lived and died without ever seeing one.
For the first time since the slap, nothing hurt.
Elira threw her head back and howled.
The sound tore through the forest. Ancient. Free. Unforgiving.
The trees seemed to lean in to listen.
Then she ran.
Through underbrush. Over frozen streams. Her paws barely kissed the ground.
For a few minutes she forgot the pain. Forgot her father. Forgot Evelyn.
She was just wolf. Just myth. Just alive.
That was when the scent hit her.
Three males. Rogues. Rot, sweat, and something uglier.
They stepped from the trees and blocked her path. Broad shoulders. Scarred faces. Grins that didn’t reach their eyes.
One shifted. Then the second. Then the third. Naked and feral in the moonlight.
"Well, well," the first one said. "A lone wolf. First shift, huh?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Wait... is that... white?"
The other two went still.
"Don’t be dumb," one muttered. "White wolves aren’t real. Just old stories."
"Then what is that?" the third whispered.
Elira’s wolf went rigid. Every muscle coiled.
_Danger. Threat. Packless female._
And now? _Rare. A trophy. Worth killing for._
"Birthday girl," the first rogue laughed, but his voice shook. "Looks like we got lucky. A myth. The northern packs would pay a fortune for her pelt."
Something went cold in Elira’s chest.
This was what Evelyn wanted her to be. Prey. A story to be skinned and mounted.
No.
A growl ripped from her throat. Low and deadly. It shook the ground.
The white fur along her spine bristled. Her eyes burned silver.
The first rogue lunged.
Instinct took over.
She was faster. Stronger. Angrier. Goddess-touched.
She hit his throat and he dropped.
The second came at her side. She spun and snapped his leg, then his neck.
The third turned to run.
She didn’t let him.
When it was over, the forest was silent again.
Only her breathing. And the dark stains in the snow.
Elira stood over them, chest heaving. Blood on her muzzle.
She’d killed all three.
And she felt no guilt.
Above her, the moon watched.
She lifted her head and howled again.
Not in fear. Not in pain.
A warning.
_The myth is real. And she bites back._
Elira was dead.
But the White Wolf of the Blood Moon had been born.
And legends do not die easy.
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