When the moon bleeds and darkness devour the stars,
A child shall be born, graced with Selene's Sacred mark,
The moon goddess's chosen heiress, her celestial light unmatched
Her destiny woven in the threads of vengeance and salvation.
Beside her stand the one foretold,
A wolf like no other, gifted with the ability to hear the unheard
And the strength to conquer the impossible.
Bound by fate he shall be her shield, her ally and equal.
Together, they shall rise, a force beyond mortal grasp,
An unyielding beacon against the eternal darkness.
But beware, for an ancient vendetta stirs,
Older than time, born of jealousy and hatred,
Sworn to extinguish the light of Selene's lineage.
Only the chosen pair, born under the bleeding moon,
Shall stand against the void and safeguard the children of the Moon.
The child of the Moon and the wolf of destiny,
Two souls entwined to defy the flow of time,
Hold the power to preserve the Moon's legacy, or doom it to external night.
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A woman burst from the forest's edge, her black hair clinging to her sweat-drenched skin. Her green eyes burned with desperation, but determination held them steady. Mud sucked at her boots as she stumbled forward, barely keeping her balance. In her arms, she cradled a swaddled infant, holding it close — her grip was firm yet gentle, as if sheer will alone could shield the child from the nightmare closing in behind them.
The forest pulsed with chaos, every sound a brutal testament to the war raging within. The guttural snarls of wolves clashed with the shouts of men, gunfire cracking through the air like thunder. Steel met flesh with sickening force, the ground trembling under the weight of bodies colliding in primal battle. Smoke twisted through the trees, thick and acrid, tainting the damp scent of moss and blood.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lungs burning with the effort. Every step felt like wading through quicksand, exhaustion dragging at her limbs, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
The bundle in her arms was too precious, too fragile. Moonlight cut through the clearing ahead, bathing her trembling figure in cold silver light. She dropped to her knees, heart hammering, and carefully laid the infant onto the soft moss.
For a moment, she hesitated. Her fingers brushed the baby's cheek, lingering as if trying to memorize the warmth, the tiny rise and fall of its chest. The child stirred but did not cry, as if it understood their predicament.
Her breath shuddered out in a quiet gasp. Then she began to change.
A ripple passed over her form, twisting muscle and bone in ways no human body should move. Pain seared through her spine as it elongated, limbs stretching, fingers curling inward as silver-white fur erupted across her skin. Her face contorted, jaw extending, teeth sharpening into fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. In mere moments, the woman was gone.
In her place stood a wolf—large, powerful, its green eyes still burning with the same fierce resolve.
The wolf lowered its head, pressing its muzzle to the infant's forehead before it carefully took the child into its jaws, holding it as delicately as she could. Then — it ran.
The world blurred past in streaks of shadow and silver light. Twigs snapped, leaves swirled, the scent of blood thickened in the air. Behind them, the battle raged on —claws meeting steel, bodies falling, cries of pain and fury splitting the night. But the wolf did not look back. It could not.
Above, the moon watched, casting its pale glow over the fleeing wolf. It illuminated the child's tiny hand, peeking from the folds of cloth, twitching slightly — but still, there was no sound. Even in innocence, the baby understood the danger.
The wolf's breath came in heavy bursts, its muscles burning. The ground beneath its paws shifted from soft earth to rougher terrain. And then — a howl pierced the night.
It was sharp, raw, and guttural — a sound of agony and loss.
The wolf skidded to a halt, ears swiveling back as its head snapped toward the sound. For a moment, it hesitated, a low whimper escaping its throat, the sound heavy with grief — but there was no time to mourn.
Steeling itself, the wolf surged forward, running faster, harder, despite the ache in its chest. The trees thinned, shadows giving way to the unnatural glow of streetlights. The world shifted — wild nature surrendering to steel, concrete, and cold civilization.
Paved roads stretched ahead, bathed in the artificial glow of streetlights. The air was tainted with the scents of fuel, asphalt, and humanity.
The wolf hesitated briefly, green eyes flicking between the trees and the unfamiliar world of steel and concrete. With a final glance back at the forest, it bolted forward. Its paws struck the asphalt with muted thuds.
Headlights flashed suddenly as cars screeched to a halt. Gasps and shouts erupted.
"Look! Is that a wolf!?"
"And — is it carrying a baby?"
Ignoring the commotion, the wolf focused intently on a single destination — a weathered, ivy-draped orphanage at the end of the street. It slowed as it approached, muscles quivering with exhaustion, and ascended the steps. Its powerful jaws lowered the infant gently onto the doorstep, careful not to disturb the child's peaceful stillness.
For a long moment, the wolf lingered, its gaze fixed on the swaddled bundle. Its eyes shone with sorrow. Lowering its muzzle, it brushed its nose against the baby's forehead one final time before raising a paw. It pressed the bell. The chime rang out, sharp and clear, echoing into the still night.
It retreated into a hidden soot, watching as the door creaked open. A woman stepped out, her kind eyes widening in shock and then softening as they landed on the infant.
"Oh, you poor child," she murmured, scooping the baby into her arms. Her gaze darted around, searching for any sign of who or what had left the child.
The door closed with a soft thud, leaving the wolf alone in the night, its eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
It stood there, staring at the orphanage, as if memorizing every detail, every crack in the walls, every flickering light.
Then, tilting its head back, it let out a single, mournful howl, and with that, it turned and vanished into the night.
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Elsewhere…
In a vast estate, a man sat on the edge of a grand bed, watching as his wife cradled their newborn son.
The infant had woken at dawn, demanding attention. His parents tended to him with quiet devotion, their love evident in every touch, every whisper.
A knock came.
The man frowned. Who would dare disturb him at this hour, and in his private quarters, no less?
"Enter," he commanded, his gaze flicking toward the door.
It swung open. A man rushed in, breathless, eyes dark with something heavy. He fell to one knee without preamble.
"Your Majesty — Stormhowl Pack was attacked last night. No one made it out."
Silence slammed into the room like a crushing heavy weight.
The queen gasped, her arms tightening around their son. Even the baby, who moments ago had been fussing, went still, as if sensing the change in the air.
The king's voice dropped, dangerously quiet. "What did you say?"
The messenger swallowed hard. "It was a massacre, Your Majesty. They wiped out the entire pack."