MOON'S LAST HEIR: LEGACY OF THE MOON GODDESS.

Born Under the Full Moon The sky burned silver that night. Clouds swirled like restless spirits, parting only to reveal a full moon so bright it drowned the stars. Villagers whispered from shuttered windows, clutching charms against their chests. They said a child was coming, and with it, a curse. Inside a modest hut at the edge of the woods, a woman screamed. Her voice tore through the air, mingling with the chanting of midwives. Sweat slicked her brow, her body trembling as life fought its way into the world. “Push!” one of the women urged, her hands steady though her eyes darted toward the window, toward that impossible moon. The mother obeyed, crying out until the walls seemed to shake. Then, at last, the wail of a newborn split the air. Silence followed an unnatural, heavy silence. The baby was wrapped quickly in linen, but as the cloth pulled tight, the midwives gasped. A mark glowed faintly across the infant’s collarbone delicate, luminous, shaped like a crescent moon. One of the women dropped to her knees. “The Goddess’s Heir…” she whispered. The others crossed themselves in fear. The mother, pale and exhausted, reached for her child. Her eyes, glassy with both joy and terror, searched the glowing mark. “She… she is blessed.” “Or cursed,” another midwife muttered under her breath. The wind howled through the open shutters, rattling the wooden beams. A raven perched on the sill, its eyes like dark coals. It watched in stillness, unblinking, as if bearing witness. Then, with a single caw, it took flight into the night as a sign of what's to come. Far away, deep within a kingdom of towering stone walls and endless forests, a man stirred in his sleep. Lucien Michael King, the Alpha King, jolted awake, his chest heaving. His chambers were vast, lined with banners and ancient weapons, but his bed felt colder than a tomb. For a thousand years, his nights had been empty, haunted by a void that no battle, no conquest, no crown could fill. But now His wolf snarled awake inside him. His silver eyes flickered in the moonlight, catching the reflection of something he had thought long dead: hope. “She’s alive,” he breathed. His fists clenched. The prophecy was stirring. The mate he had waited centuries for, the one piece missing from his immortal soul, had been born this night. And somewhere beyond the forests, beyond the walls, beyond the reach of his kingdom… she was crying into her mother’s arms, unaware that fate had already chained her life to his. The next morning, the village buzzed with uneasy whispers. Neighbors kept their distance from the hut, muttering prayers. Some said the child would bring salvation; others swore she would bring ruin. By the time dawn broke, her story was already twisted. She is the last gift of the Moon Goddess. She will destroy us all. She will be the Queen of Wolves. The child’s father stood outside the hut, holding an axe though his hands trembled. He glared at the crowd, daring them to speak openly. “She’s just a baby,” he growled. “My daughter. Nothing more.” But deep in his chest, even he felt the truth clawing at him: nothing about her was ordinary. That night, while the village slept uneasy, a cloaked figure moved through the woods. His robes were black as pitch, his face hidden beneath a hood. He knelt before a crude altar carved from stone, the air heavy with incense and ash. “The Heir is born,” he whispered, his voice carrying like smoke. A dozen more cloaked figures knelt behind him. “What shall we do, Master?” one asked. The hooded man raised his head. His eyes burned red against the shadows. “We end her before she finds him. Before prophecy binds them.” His lips twisted into a cruel smile. “The Moon’s last mistake will never rise.” He lifted his hand, and the raven from the birth hut swooped down to perch on his arm. Its beak dripped with blood. The man stroked its feathers. “Fly, little one. Watch her. Mark her path. She will not survive her destiny.” Back in the hut, the baby slept in her mother’s arms, unaware of the weight already pressing down on her fragile shoulders. Her mother traced the glowing crescent on her skin with a trembling finger. “What will become of you, my love?” she whispered. The baby stirred, her small hand clutching at nothing. Above them, the moon began to fade into dawn, but its light lingered on her skin longer than it should have, as though it refused to let her go. And far away, in his castle of stone and shadows, Lucien stood at his balcony, watching that same moon. For the first time in centuries, his chest ached with something dangerous. Not rage. Not hunger. Hope. …………………………………………………