Before the earth.
Born with the universe itself were the Umbrals.
From them came the Voidwalkers.
They moved through stars and darkness.
They shaped worlds and unmade them.
When they left, they left behind a wild world.
A raw world.
A world of beasts.
Among the beasts were the wolves.
But among the wolves came something greater.
The first children of the Moon.
The werewolves.
Not monsters. Not cursed.
Chosen.
The Moon loved them. Held them. Shaped them.
She gave them form. Strength. Hunger.
They did not serve her.
They were her.
Seven tribes walked the earth.
Fullmoon — strong in honor.
Bloodmoon — born for war.
Halfmoon — balanced in mind and body.
Newmoon — silent watchers in darkness.
Crescent Moon — dreamers walking between worlds.
Eclipseborn — the lost, the broken, the destined.
They ruled without chains.
They hunted with purpose.
The earth was theirs.
Until the humans came.
Soft flesh. Weak bones.
Strong desire.
They built fires where shadows should live.
They spoke words instead of howls.
They brought war — not with claws, but with flame and iron.
The Moon turned her face.
The tribes fell, one by one.
The forests burned.
The hunts ended.
Werewolves became stories.
Then whispers.
Then nothing.
Only one remained.
He did not forget.
His blood remembered.
The time before fire.
The time of fangs. And that's me