AURORA

THE GODDESS MOTHER SPOKE OF

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The evening torches flickered softly as the Crown Prince strode into his chambers after a long day of training. His fair skin gleamed faintly with sweat beneath the lamplight, every defined muscle carved like marble under his fitted tunic. The strong line of his jaw, the sculpt of his broad shoulders, the taut ridges of his chest and abdomen — all of it spoke of discipline and quiet strength.

A maid knelt immediately as he entered, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. With careful, trembling hands, she reached to unfasten his sword belt and loosen his garments. The Prince did not look at her, his expression calm and distant, yet his presence was magnetic.

As the last of his clothes slipped away, she averted her eyes, though her cheeks burned. His chest rose and fell slowly, powerful and steady. The narrow taper of his waist, the ripple of his arms — every detail made him seem less like a man and more like some untouchable figure from legend.

She prepared his bath with care, pouring fragrant oils into the steaming water. The scent of sandalwood and myrrh filled the room as he stepped into the tub, leaning back with a quiet sigh. His long black hair flowed behind him over the edge of the bath, glinting under the lantern light.

The maid stayed close, waiting silently for any command, but the room was hushed, thick with a strange tension. To her, every moment in his presence felt like a dream — a night that whispered of more.

Later, when the night grew heavy and the torches burned low, whatever closeness had passed between them left her flushed and dizzy with hope. She lingered at his bedside, her heart racing, foolishly believing she had found a special place in his heart.

But when dawn’s light began to creep through the window, his voice cut through her haze, cold and detached.

“You may leave now.”

No warmth. No sentiment. Just the tone of a Prince who had never promised her anything.

Her heart stung, but she bowed, forcing a smile. She clung to the fantasy that she was different, that she mattered more than the others, even if the truth said otherwise.

When the door closed behind her, silence settled over the chamber. The Prince lay back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling. Not once did his thoughts wander to the maid who had so easily convinced herself she was special. Instead, his mind returned to Aurora.

The timid servant girl with the wide eyes. The girl who had dared reach for the heirloom.

Why does the heirloom call to her? His jaw tightened slightly. Could she be… the one Mother spoke of?

His mother’s voice echoed in his memory — the soft, lilting tone as she told him of the prophecy, of a goddess reborn who would change everything. He remembered her long flowing black hair, so much like his own, and the tragic day she had fallen from the tower. The grief stabbed him anew, even after all these years.

He ran his hand slowly through his hair, closing his eyes. Auro…

Her name lingered in his thoughts like an unfinished melody. And for the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him — not emptiness, not duty, but curiosity.

I hope I see her again tomorrow, he admitted silently before sleep claimed him.

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In the vast forest beyond the horizon, where the treetops kissed the fading sun, a girl with fiery red hair sat prettily on a fallen log. The golden light danced on her locks like living flame, and her laughter rippled through the woods like a songbird’s melody. Her name was Enid — daughter of Alpha Jacob, sister to the girl she had long forgotten.

Behind her sat Martha, her mother, weaving wildflowers into Enid’s braid with patient hands. The woman’s face was calm, her smile warm, her thoughts content. Life in the Silverfang Pack was good, and today would be no different.

A rustle of leaves announced Jacob’s arrival. The Alpha’s commanding figure emerged through the trees, bow slung over his shoulder, eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt.

“Come,” he said, voice deep yet tender. “The sun won’t wait for us.”

Enid hopped to her feet, her red hair glowing like fire as she joined her father. Martha followed, a dagger strapped to her thigh — she was no delicate Luna, but a huntress in her own right. Together, the three moved through the thick forest, the sounds of birds and rustling leaves blending with their soft laughter.

They tracked deer prints across a bubbling creek, Jacob pointing out signs while Enid watched eagerly. Her skill was growing — fast, almost unnaturally so. At just sixteen, her senses were sharper than most warriors. When the stag finally appeared, she nocked her arrow with precision and let it fly. The deer fell, swift and clean.

Jacob placed a proud hand on her shoulder. “You’ll surpass me soon, little wolf.”

Enid grinned, her green eyes sparkling. “I’ll try not to embarrass you too badly, Father.”

They returned to the camp with their spoils, laughter trailing behind them. There was no mention of Aurora. No grief, no longing. The girl who had vanished years ago was nothing more than a faded whisper in the wind — if remembered at all.

That night, under the glow of the moon, the pack gathered. Enid stood in the center, bathed in silver light. The elders watched her intently, whispering among themselves.

“Her wolf blood is strong,” one murmured.

“She could be the goddess the old prophecy speaks of,” said another.

Jacob and Martha exchanged a look — pride, but also unease. Enid didn’t flinch. She knelt gracefully, the red of her hair burning under the moonlight, as the pack prepared for the ritual that would test her connection to the Moon Goddess.

Far away, Aurora slept under the same moon, unaware that her sister thrived, celebrated, and perhaps chosen. And for the Silverfang pack, there was no grief, no shadow of the missing girl — only the rise of Enid, the red wolf who might soon fulfill destiny itself.