Whisper to the Moon

The day I stepped into the wolf pack's territory, the season's first snow began to fall along the border. The flakes settled, stark white against my shoulders. I watched them melt into the fabric of the coat my mother had sewn for me. I couldn't help but think of the snow five years ago—it had been just as pristine. But that snow had turned crimson. Blood had painted a gruesome trail from our front door all the way to the backyard. My father's hand rested on the doorstep; the last thing he ever touched was wood. I touched wood, too. I gathered his planes and chisels from the workshop, meticulously wiping away his fingerprints, inch by agonizing inch. My five-year-old brother was sobbing on my back. His face was buried in my neck, his tears scalding against my skin. I couldn't run anymore. I stumbled and fell. He was thrown three meters, landing face-first in the snow. The vampire emerged from the shadows of the trees. I stood between them, my hands white-knuckled around a broken branch. Then, he appeared. A hand reaching out in the moonlight. His fingers were warm as they wiped the blood from my face. He stood up and walked away without a word. Three scars marked the back of his neck—silver, catching the pale light of the moon. I had drawn that image for five years. And now, I was standing in his pack. "Human," the guard spat. A fire roared in the center of the clearing. Wolves lounged around it; some licked grease from their muzzles, while others picked their teeth with splintered bones. I kept my gaze fixed on my worn-out shoes. At the far end of the clearing sat a stone throne draped in pristine white wolf fur. Kael reclined there, a bone knife spinning effortlessly between his fingers. I looked up. Three scars on the back of his neck, flashing in the firelight. My nails bit into my palms. I had drawn that picture five hundred times. "Alpha," said the gray Beta beside the stone seat, rising to his full, imposing height. He was massive, gray fur creeping from his collar up to his sharp cheekbones, his lips curling back to reveal yellowed fangs. He took a deliberate step toward me, his nostrils flaring. "Let me have her. It's been too long since I tasted human." Grey. The guard had mentioned that name when I was brought in. Stay away from Grey. He's got the sharpest nose in the pack. Kael's knife kept spinning. Once. Twice. Silver light danced in the fire's glow. "Grey," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "Sit." Grey didn't move. He leaned closer, his nose mere inches from my shoulder. "Just one bite. One hand will do. Isn't that why she's here? To be eaten?" He reached out. His nails were black, curved and cruel like hooks. "Grey," Kael repeated. The knife stopped. Its point rested lightly against his knee. He hadn't moved from the throne, his body still leaning sideways, his head only half-turned. But the blade was perfectly still. "I told you to sit." Grey's hand froze in midair, inches from my wrist. In that tense gap, the stench of rotten meat and stale liquor washed over me, rust-colored filth caked beneath his nails. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat, like something struggling to break free. Then he pulled back, took half a step away, and lowered himself back into his seat. Before he sat, he shot me a look—dark yellow eyes with vertical slits. The message was unmistakable: When the Alpha's not around, you're meat. My knees were trembling. I locked them straight. Kael raised his eyes and swept his gaze over me—from my tangled, matted hair to my battered shoes. His eyes lingered at my collar, where melted snow had darkened the fabric against my neck. Then, he looked away. "You came all this way to offer yourself as food?" He tilted his head, his mouth set in a flat line. "That human stink of yours would foul my teeth before I even took a bite." Someone nearby laughed—a low, throaty sound. "Get out." He leaned back into the white fur, and the knife began to spin again. Silver flashed. I didn't move. "Alpha!" A guard burst into the clearing and dropped to one knee. "The north watchtower platform collapsed. The beam snapped, the mortise joint split. The whole thing came down. We'll be blind to the north tonight." Kael's fingers stilled. He pressed his thumb to his temple, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "I can fix it," I said. He looked at me again. Not a dismissive scan—a real, piercing look. His face turned fully toward mine, his gaze holding mine for three long seconds. "A split mortise doesn't mean the beam is ruined," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I can reinforce it with wedges and braces. It'll stand before nightfall." He held my gaze. "Take her," he commanded. The guard rose. I turned to follow. "If it falls again," Kael's voice carried through the quiet, snow-muffled air, "you feed Grey tonight." Grey's laugh followed me—low, rough, like claws scraping against stone. I didn't look back. The north watchtower stood on the farthest slope of the territory. The main beam lay twisted in the snow like a broken spine. The mortise was split, the wood soaked through and soft beneath my probing fingers. I crouched and started carving wedges. The axe was dull, slipping with almost every desperate strike. Soon, my palm split open. Blood seeped onto the wood, mixing with meltwater and sawdust into a pale, morbid sludge. The guard stood nearby, casually smoking a pipe. He didn't offer to help. I finished the first wedge. Then the second. On the third, my grip slipped. The axe sliced into my thumb. It wasn't deep, but blood welled up instantly and ran down my hand. A drop fell. A red spot bloomed in the pristine snow. I stared at it. There had been red spots in the snow five years ago, too. His blood. He had shaken his hand, scattering crimson drops across the white ground. I crouched there, blood dripping steadily. One drop. Another. A third. For five seconds, I couldn't move. Then I pressed my thumb hard into my palm and held it. Blood seeped through my fingers. I waited until I could breathe again. Then, I picked up the axe. Two hours later, the wedges were in. I'd braced them with heavy stones. When the tenon slid back into the joint, the whole platform gave a deep, resonant groan. It locked into place. I climbed down. Both hands were caked in drying blood. But the watchtower stood. The guard climbed up and stomped twice. He looked down at me. Said nothing. Then he walked away, leaving me alone in the biting cold. Blood dripped from my fingertips. I shook my hand, flinging the rest away. Then, I looked up. Kael stood on the slope, arms crossed, his shoulder leaning against a tree. Snow had gathered on his dark hair. I didn't know how long he'd been watching. Firelight touched one side of his face, leaving the other cast in deep shadow. I looked at him. He looked at me. Neither of us spoke. Then he lowered his arms and turned away. His footsteps crunched heavily through the snow. The scars on his neck caught the firelight—a flash of silver, then swallowed by the dark. He never asked my name. That night, they put me in a dilapidated shed. Straw littered the floor, the roof leaked, and snow sifted through the cracks in the walls. I tore a strip from my coat and started wrapping my battered hands. Halfway through, I heard a soft scrape outside the door. Something had been left on the step. I crawled over and looked. A bone. A gnawed deer leg bone, scraps of gristle still clinging to it. I stared at it for a long time. Then I picked it up. It was cold. Hard. Deep teeth marks were pressed into the surface. I wiped it clean and placed it beside the sketch hidden in my coat—the picture I'd drawn for five years. His three scars. His back, walking away into the snow. Now, the bone sat beside it. I crouched in the straw, pressing the sketch to my chest. Blood seeped through my makeshift bandages, staining the paper's edge. Kael had said four things that day. "Grey. Sit down." "That human stink would foul my teeth before I even took a bite." "Get out." "If it falls again, you feed Grey tonight." None of them were about me. Five years ago, he'd wiped the blood from my face because I happened to be there. Today, he'd stopped Grey because Grey had challenged his authority. He was keeping order. Not protecting me. The difference was painfully clear. I held the sketch tight. Snow fell outside. Before I closed my eyes, I counted tomorrow's work: Sera said Mick's coat was torn. Thor's bowstring was loose. Finn needed a new axe handle. I lined them up in my mind, one by one, and placed them beside the memory of that snowy night. The snow fell quietly. The shed was freezing. My wounds throbbed. I fell asleep.