The sky above Aethel was a canvas of deep indigo, dominated by the silent grandeur of Lunara, the primary silver moon, and the anxious, coppery glow of Ignis, its smaller companion. From her perch high in the ancient redwood, Elara, barely thirteen summers old, watched the celestial bodies drift.
Her legs dangled, swinging softly in the cool, mountain air. Two years. Only two years separated her from the most important day of her young life: the day the Power would awaken. Every child in the valley knew the covenant—at fifteen, they would be gifted a unique ability meant to sustain and help their tribe prosper against the harsh realities of their world. But the weight of that expectation was a heavy cloak. She searched the deep, star-strewn darkness, hoping the ancient lights held a clue. Would her power be a force for healing, or one of destruction? Would it be enough to make her worthy of the sacrifice her parents had made?
In a world far colder and bleaker, a single, sharp white moon hung like a broken promise in the winter sky. The ground outside the ramshackle hut was covered in frost, the air inside barely warmer. Leo, though thirteen, was painfully small, his frame thin enough to belong to a child of seven. He pressed his face against the single dirty windowpane, the sight of the moon the only thing cutting through the oppressive darkness.
He felt the familiar, crushing loneliness in his chest. Will anyone ever be by my side? The question was a ghost of a prayer he didn't dare speak aloud. Suddenly, the silence was invaded by a familiar, cruel echo. Worthless. You're worthless. I regret the day you were born! The remnants of his mother's frantic, angry voice flooded his consciousness, a torrent of shame and pain. He sank to his knees, covering his ears, his shoulders shaking with silent, desperate tears, trying in vain to drown out the hateful noise.
Far from both the bright moons of Aethel and the cold, single moon of the modern world, in a stretch of frozen, primeval forest, a third lonely soul walked. The fox was an exile. It should have been born with the dominant, rich black coat of its lineage, but a cruel twist of fate had left it swathed in soft, unmistakable white. Its family had driven it out, its difference a perceived weakness in the unforgiving wild.
But as the moonlight touched its face, its eyes flashed. They were not the usual golden hue of its species; they held a mysterious, brilliant blue shimmer, deep and otherworldly, a silent hint of untapped potential. The small, abandoned creature, a living aberration of nature, carried within it the coiled, quiet promise of magic.