WHEN THE MOON REMEMBERS

CHAPTER 2

LIRA'S POV

I was only eleven years old when I first saw him.

It was the night of the Gathering Moon, the one night each year when every bloodline came together beneath the same sky, repeating promises that had existed long before any of us were born. My father's hand held mine a little too tightly as we made our way through the crowd. He always did that whenever we were surrounded by strangers, as if he believed the world might steal me away the moment he loosened his grip.

"Stand up straight," he muttered, tugging at the collar of my itchy ceremonial dress. His fingers smelled like cedar oil, he always rubbed it into his hunting knives, and I couldn’t get it out of my nose. "You're an Ashworth. We don't slouch in front of the Stormfangs."

I rolled my eyes. I mean, I was eleven. Titles, alliances, which family ducked their heads deeper at the fire, none of that mattered to me. I cared about honey cakes on the long table, and whether I could sneak a seat beside the older kids and stay up late past moonrise.

That’s when I saw him.

Darius was maybe thirteen, standing straight beside his father, carrying himself like he already felt the crown pressing on his skull, even though nobody was making him wear it yet. He looked restless and bored, like if he could just run off and howl at the moon, he would. I saw myself in that: trapped in a too-nice outfit when we’d both rather be anywhere else.

We locked eyes over the fire pit.

He didn’t look away. Neither did I.

Later, when the adults had drifted into wine and arguments about pasture lands and border wolves, I slipped out of the noisy tent searching for air. I didn’t find silence, though—I found him, hunched on a fallen log at the edge of the firelight, tossing little stones into the darkness one after another, seeing how far they’d go.

"You're the Ashworth girl," he said, eyes on the ground.

"And you’re the Stormfang boy who looks like he’s counting every minute until this is over."

That got him to look up. He smiled for real, none of that polite, courtly nonsense. Just a crooked, honest smile that made him look younger, almost soft.

"Is it that obvious?"

"To someone who feels the same, yeah."

He laughed, surprised and real. Like he didn’t do it much around other people. We stayed there, just two kids from families that were supposed to watch their words, talking about things that didn’t sound important but somehow were. How our wolves felt when they first woke. Whether the moon got lonely being the only one stuck up there, watching everything. He said no, he thought the moon must feel peaceful, keeping an eye on everyone. I’d never heard a boy my age say something that gentle.

We didn’t know, how could we?, that our fathers were already trading whispers about binding our bloodlines together, maps and old pacts spread out in rooms we weren’t allowed to enter. We didn’t know that two years from then, the packs would promise us to each other in front of everyone, just like the ancestors did.

That night, all I wanted was to spend a little more time outside before going back into the stuffy tent.

"Do you think we’ll see each other again?" I asked.

He picked up one more stone, turned it over in his hands, and threw it farther than any of the others, so far, I lost the sound of it.

"I hope so," he said. "You’re the first person who doesn’t look at me like I’m already an Alpha. I’m just me."

I didn’t tell him I liked him. I didn’t even have words for that yet. But I remember going back to the fire with a strange, shaky excitement, like I’d stumbled onto something I was supposed to search years for.

My father found me near the flames. The firelight made his face look gentler than usual.

"You were talking to the Stormfang boy," he said.

"Is that bad?"

He was quiet, glancing toward the darkness where the boy had already faded away.

"No," he said finally. "But some bonds are heavier than a child can carry alone. Promise me something, Lira."

"What?"

"If anyone ever tells you that the boy’s hurt you, or you’ve hurt him, don’t just believe it. Wait. Look deeper. The truth’s usually not as simple as it seems under the full moon." His eyes were fixed on the trees, like he was talking to ghosts.

I didn’t really get what he meant. I was eleven. The fire was warm, a boy who liked the moon had thrown a stone so far I’d missed its sound, and the world didn’t look dangerous yet.

I had no idea that years later, I’d stand in a crowd like this and watch that same boy raise his hand to kill my father.

Or that my father’s quiet warning, given so gently by the fire, when I still thought old oaths lasted forever, would be the one true thing I’d hear for years.