Fated by the Moon

1

Five Years Later.....

The Monday seminar begins, as always, with the hiss of old radiators and the whine of the third-floor projector cart. Professor Kala Jansen enters with the stride of someone who expects space to part for her— and it does, even though most of her students are already seated and surreptitiously scrolling their phones. The scent of chalk dust, high-gloss marker, and burnt coffee permeates the air, but underneath it clings a deeper layer: the animal tang of stress and adolescent sweat, more pronounced here than in her other classes.

She sets her briefcase on the desk, careful to angle the latch so the small crimson moon embedded near the handle catches the light. The emblem is barely larger than a dime, a nod to her lineage and the bloodline that made her a pack Alpha before she was ever Doctor Jansen, Ph.D. She suspects only two people in the room know what it means. One is herself. The other is Ember Quinn, seated second from the back, leftmost row.

Ember keeps her head down, fringe falling in her eyes as she annotates the course packet, margins bristling with red ink and coded symbols. She has chosen the same seat every day since week one, despite the fact that the HVAC vent overhead hisses like a leaking pipe and half the bulbs in the ceiling bank above her are dead, casting her into a twilight that doesn’t reach the rest of the room. On Ember’s right, a sturdy girl in a rugby hoodie leans into her phone, thumb scrolling with ruthless efficiency. Two seats in front, a line of varsity soccer jackets. Kala notes these things automatically, cataloguing the small alliances and animosities that ripple through every classroom. Nothing in her years as Beta—or later, Alpha—prepared her for the merciless fluidity of undergraduate politics.

Tammie, for her part, perches in the front row, legs crossed high, a composition book open but entirely blank. She watches Kala with an attention that is at once eager and insolent. Occasionally, she tosses a glance back at Ember, the glint in her eyes sharp as a wolf’s even in human form. Kala imagines the air between them as a live wire, crackling and hungry.

“Good morning,” Kala says, voice carrying with the crisp finality of a breaking stick. Thirty heads lift in unison, twenty-eight of them feigning attentiveness. She writes SOC-310: Pack Dynamics and the Modern World on the whiteboard, the marker tip squeaking with every stroke.

“Let’s begin with last week’s readings,” she says, capping the marker with a snap. “Who can summarize Dr. Tallin’s theory on transgenic pack integration?”

For a moment, the room performs its customary ritual: nobody moves, nobody volunteers. Then a slender hand lifts—Ember’s, precise and unobtrusive, as if she expects to be called on only by accident.

Kala nods at her. “Ms. Quinn.”

“Tallin argues that integration is driven more by social adaptation than by innate dominance hierarchies,” Ember says, not looking up. “He uses data from mixed packs in British Columbia to show that new members acclimate fastest when they’re treated as equals, regardless of bloodline.”

There is a silence while the class digests this. Tammie, who has been biting the cap of her pen, lets it drop to her notebook with an audible click.

Kala turns to the room. “Does anyone disagree?”

Tammie’s hand rises so fast it wobbles, like a flag yanked up a pole.

“Ms. Maddox.”

Tammie flashes a smile—an act of pure theater, every canine just a touch more pronounced than her gums strictly require. “I think Tallin’s full of it, Professor. Those studies were biased. The so-called ‘mixed packs’ were just temporary alliances, not real integration. Most of the new members got forced out within a year.”

She pivots in her chair, head tilted with calculated innocence. “It’s just—when you’re talking about real packs, the dominant ones always end up on top. Genetics matter. History matters.”

Kala nods, folding her arms. “Ms. Quinn, rebuttal?”

Ember’s jaw tenses, a muscle knotting beneath her cheek. She keeps her gaze on her notes. “Tallin accounted for that in his second paper. He tracked the same population for five more years. The dropout rate was highest for packs that resisted social adaptation—by year three, the packs that treated newcomers as subordinates collapsed. The ones that made an effort to include all members survived longer and held territory more consistently.”

“Because they got lucky,” Tammie shoots back, her smile congealing into a smirk. “Alpha deaths, natural disasters, all that. They didn’t adapt so much as inherit the niche.”

“Luck’s not a scientific variable,” Ember says quietly, but her hands have begun to move: pen circling a word, then double-underlining it until the paper almost tears.

Kala waits a moment, watching the seesaw of tension in the room. The rest of the students are rapt now, eyes tracking back and forth as if a real fight might break out, as if the wooden desks and painted cinderblock walls couldn’t possibly hold the heat of what’s brewing.

She raises a hand, palm up, and both girls fall silent.

“There are merits to both arguments,” Kala says. “But I want you to consider something else: the impact of expectation. In both wild packs and human societies, we often assume dominance will always assert itself. But what if adaptation isn’t just an outlier, but the new norm? How do you prepare for a world where strength isn’t the only thing that matters?”

The question hangs in the air. She can feel Tammie chafing at it, rolling her eyes just enough to be seen but not enough to incur a penalty. Ember remains motionless, but the lines in her notebook have grown more crowded, red ink spreading in complex fractals.

“Read chapters six and seven for next week,” Kala instructs, her voice firm yet inviting as she dismisses the class with a nod. “And be prepared to discuss how these theories apply to our own society, especially in light of last semester’s events.”

As soon as the words are out, she regrets them. A few of the students—those who know—glance at Ember, whose face is blank but whose pulse can almost be heard in the hush of the emptying room.

As the students begin to pack their bags and chatter fills the air, she raises her voice slightly to capture their attention once more. “For those interested, I’ll be hosting a study session at my house this Friday evening. It’ll be a chance to dive deeper into the material and explore how it connects to our experiences.” She smiles, her eyes scanning the room. “Snacks will be provided—consider it a reward for your hard work.” A few heads turn, curiosity sparking among them at the prospect of an informal gathering. Ember looks up, her interest ignited, as she watches her classmates exchange glances, weighing the invitation.

The exodus is quick. Rugby hoodie girl vanishes in a streak of spandex and flannel. The soccer jackets clump together, comparing schedules and grumbling about the reading load. Ember gathers her things with quick, precise movements, never looking up, and exits so fast the door closes behind her with a pneumatic whoosh.

Tammie lingers, packing her bag with deliberate slowness, as if waiting for an invitation to linger further. When it becomes clear that Kala will not provide one, she stands and leans on the desk, her eyes locked on the crimson moon on Kala’s briefcase.

“Nice emblem,” she says, voice pitched just above a whisper.

Kala smiles, all civility. “Thank you. It’s a family heirloom.”

Tammie’s eyes narrow, calculating. “Bet it is.” She swings her bag over her shoulder, glances once more at the door Ember just left through, then slips out, shoes slapping the tile with unnecessary violence.

The classroom is quiet again, save for the soft tick of the clock and the lingering chemical tang of Expo marker. Kala sits a moment longer, replaying the exchange between her two most interesting students. The lines are drawn, but the outcome is not yet certain. She pulls out her planner, opens it to next week, and makes a note in careful script: Watch Ember. Assess risk.

She stands, gathers her briefcase, and heads to her office, already bracing herself for the politics of the day to come.