THE MOONBORN
A group of ten wolves jump up to the ridge in a single, fluid motion, fur bristling like blown grass. Another ten split and fan out, sliding along gullies to close the trap on both flanks. The world narrows to leather fang and the heavy, wet sound of claws scraping the stones. They breathe in ragged, synchronized gusts, a sign of hunger, and their eyes catch the ring’s light in my hand, like a knife. They lock in, circling tighter until the space around me is a living drum of movement. I can feel the tug of their momentum through the ground under my shoes. In a distant, thudding rhythm rises in my heart. The ring in my hand hisses, sparks crawling over my knuckles, casting everything in pale, staccato flashes. Energy threads braid through my veins, cold and electric, and each heartbeat
- Writer
