The knock at the door came just after nightfall—sharp, hurried, and laced with fear.
Isolde Silvanne didn't startle. She'd felt the weight of worry pressing through the trees long before the mother's hand touched wood. Still, she wiped her palms clean on a linen cloth and pulled open the door with calm eyes and steady breath.
A woman stood on the threshold, dark hair matted with wind, shawl slipping from her shoulders. In her arms, a small boy whimpered—a half-shifted wolf pup, no more than five, fever-bright and curled into himself like a dying leaf.
"He won't fully shift back," the mother gasped. "He—he was playing near the hollow and then he collapsed. His fever's too high. I didn't know where else to go. They.. they said you'd know what to do."
"You came to the right place," Isolde said softly. "Come inside."
The cottage was warm, scented with dried lavender, juniper, and the faint sharpness of salve. The fire crackled low in the hearth, and a kettle sighed steam. Isolde guided the mother to the cot by the fire and helped her lay the child down. His fur was silver-brown, but dulled with heat. His breathing came in shallow, fast bursts.
Isolde knelt beside him, fingers gentle as she pressed them to the pulse point at his throat. "He's fighting something off," she murmured. "His body's holding the shift to protect him. It's not uncommon with fevers like this."
The mother's hands twisted in her skirts. "Will he…?"
"He'll be alright," Isolde promised. "But he needs time. And so do you."
She turned and met the woman's exhausted gaze. "Go rest. My bed is just down the hall. It's warm, quiet. I'll keep watch and administer treatment."
The woman hesitated, maternal instinct and bone-deep weariness warring behind her eyes.
"You'll be no good to him if you're dead on your legs, rest for a few hours." Isolde chided gently when she didn't leave the room.
But after another glance at her son—whose breathing had slowed just enough to ease the panic—she nodded.
"I'll wake you if he worsens," Isolde added, her voice like cool water on a hot wound. "You've done your part, now let me do mine."
The woman disappeared down the hall, and Isolde settled into the chair beside the cot, combing her fingers through the pup's matted fur with practiced care.
Isolde began to rub a salve all over his abdomen, only stopping to mix a medicinal broth. Eventually, the boy stirred, eyes flickering open—bright amber clouded by sickness and fear.
"Where's my mama?" he rasped, tongue dry.
"She's sleeping. Just for a little while," Isolde said. "You're safe here. I'm watching over you. You will be okay little one."
His little nose twitched, and then his lip trembled. "I don't wanna sleep. I don't feel good. I'm scared."
Isolde reached for a nearby cup and held it to his mouth, letting him sip the warm broth inside. "I know. But the Moon is up now, and she's watching too."
He sniffled. "Mama tells me stories when I'm sick. But she's not here."
Isolde smiled gently. "Then I'll tell you one. One of the oldest stories ever told. Would you like that?"
The boy gave a small nod and curled tighter into the blanket.
Isolde leaned back, her eyes catching the silver gleam through the window. Her voice dropped into a soothing cadence, low and warm as a lullaby.
"Long, long ago—before wolves built dens and houses, before packs had names, and before stars had stories—there was only the sky. And in that sky, all alone, was the Moon.
She wasn't like the other gods, loud and shining and proud. She didn't fight for worship. She didn't burn. She just watched—quietly, lovingly.
But even goddesses get lonely.
So one night, she let a single tear fall from the sky. Down, down it fell, through clouds and shadow and silence, until it touched the earth.
And from that tear, a wolf was born.
He had no name. No pack. No voice. Only a strange ache in his chest and a longing too big for his little body.
He wandered the forests in silence. But one night, he looked up—and there She was, the Moon, watching him.
And though he had no words, he lifted his head… and he howled.
It wasn't a sound like we make now. It was… pure. A song made from starlight and loneliness. And the Moon heard it, she listened and wept with joy.
She loved it so much, she reached down and touched his throat. Just once.
'Sing for me,' she said. 'So I may know you in the dark.'
And he did. He sang every night.
So she gave him a gift. A silver thread, spun from her own light. She tied it to his heart and said:
'You will never be alone again.One day, you will find another who sings your song.When you do, you'll know.And your howl will shake the stars.'
Since then, every wolf has carried that thread. Some find the one it leads to. Some don't. But the Moon keeps watch. Always.
And if you're very still… and very brave…you might feel that thread humming inside your chest.
It means you belong.
And that you're never truly lost."
By the time she finished, the pup's breathing had deepened. His tiny body, still half-shifted, was slack with sleep. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Isolde reached out and smoothed his hair back from his brow.
"Rest now, little wolf," she whispered. "The Moon is watching."
And in the silence that followed, if one listened closely,one might have sworn the wind outside was singing.