The moon was barely a whisper in the dusky sky, but already the air hummed with anticipation. Lanterns, strung between the sturdy oaks surrounding our village, glowed with a soft, golden light. Children ran in excited circles, their laughter ringing out into the early evening. Adults prepared the long wooden tables, covering them with freshly baked bread, platters of venison, and bowls of wild berries. The air smelled of roasting meat, pine, and something else—a hint of the wild, the thrill of the hunt.
I stood by the main clearing, watching everything unfold. My fingers twitched nervously at my sides. Even though I’d grown up in the heart of this pack, there was something about this night, about the whispered stories of the eclipse, that made my skin tingle.
“Lyra, don’t just stand ther
