The first bells of dawn rang hollow through Hollowshade Valley, their echoes bouncing across the fog-thick hills. The villagers, still sleepy-eyed, spilled into the dirt paths that wound through the market square, carrying baskets of eggs, grain, herbs, and dried fish. Chickens scattered as hooves clattered against cobblestones, carts rattling into place for the morning trade.
Life in Hollowshade always looked ordinary at first glance, too ordinary. The villagers laughed, bargained, and traded like any simple folk. Yet beneath their chatter lay a careful edge, a quiet tension born of old fears. Doors were always bolted at sundown. Silver charms hung over thresholds. And when the moon waxed full, prayers to gods they hardly believed in were whispered over every cradle.
No one spoke of witches. No one spoke of werewolves. But every villager felt their shadows pressing just beyond the tree line.
And yet, tucked on the farthest edge of the square stood a crooked little shop, its wooden sign swaying in the morning breeze. Painted across it was a single word in faded ink: APOTHECARY.
The door groaned as it swung open, spilling the scent of herbs, smoke, and rain-soaked earth. Inside, shelves buckled under glass vials, jars of roots, and bundles of herbs strung upside down to dry. A cauldron simmered at the back, steam curling like ghostly fingers toward the rafters.
Selene Nightshade moved with quiet grace among her shelves, her pale hands steady as she measured herbs into tiny packets. Her long dark hair was tied loosely behind her, though strands often fell across her face as she worked.
To the villagers, she was nothing more than their healer, the miracle apothecary of Hollowshade, the one who cured fevers and stitched wounds when no priest's blessing could help.
But Selene knew better.
Every vial, every tincture, every powder she sold contained more than herbs. Hidden beneath careful layers of earthly medicine were whispers of spellwork, slivers of enchantment, subtle and unseen. A touch of moonstone dust in a fever tonic, a muttered charm hidden in her breath as she ground sage into ash.
She was not only an apothecary.
She was a witch.
The last surviving daughter of the Nightshade Coven.
"Selene, please…." The voice cracked with desperation as the shop door banged open. A woman stumbled in, clutching the arm of her son. The boy wheezed heavily, his face pale and lips tinged blue. "He hasn't stopped coughing since last night!"
Selene's expression softened. She swept forward, kneeling before the child, pressing a cool hand to his burning forehead. "Hush, little one. Breathe for me," she murmured gently, though the rasping cough broke her heart.
Without hesitation, she rose, her skirts whispering across the wooden floor, and reached for a vial of shimmering blue liquid on her highest shelf. She knelt again, coaxing the boy's lips open as she tipped the potion between them.
The child flinched at the bitter taste but swallowed. Within moments, his breathing eased, his shoulders slumping as the tightness in his chest melted away.
The boy's mother gasped, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, bless the heavens for you, Selene! You're a gift to us all."
Selene forced a small smile, bowing her head humbly. "It is the herbs, not me. Let him rest, and no running near the river until his strength returns."
The woman kissed her son's hair, weeping with gratitude, before stumbling out of the shop.
The bell above the door jingled shut. Silence returned.
And Selene exhaled slowly, the smile sliding from her lips. For beneath the herbs in that potion had been more than medicine. She had whispered a spell into it as she poured. If the woman ever guessed, her thanks would turn to fear… and fear always turned to fire.
"Another soul saved," a quiet voice observed.
Selene turned to find Elara seated by the window, pale fingers deftly tying bundles of dried thyme. Cloaked in grey, her long hair woven into braids, Elara's pale blue eyes carried the faraway look of one who always saw more than the present.
"You risk yourself with every charm," Elara murmured. "One day, someone will notice how your remedies heal faster than nature should allow."
Selene pressed her palms against the counter, staring at the faint scorch marks in the wood. "And if I hadn't helped? If I let the boy choke to death while herbs alone worked slowly? What then?"
"You cannot save everyone," Elara whispered, her eyes darkening as though touched by vision. "And you cannot keep your secret forever."
The words lingered heavy in the air.
Before Selene could reply, the bell chimed again.
A man filled the doorway this time. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and roughened hands. His presence drew glances even from those passing outside the shop. Darius Hale: the village blacksmith, known for his strength as much as his silence.
"Morning, Selene." His voice rumbled like distant thunder as he set a heavy bundle on the counter. "The hinges you requested. Stronger than the last. Won't break easily."
Selene nodded politely. "Thank you, Darius."
His sharp eyes lingered on her shelves too long. He had always looked at her shop with a strange caution, as though he saw something others missed.
"You've been working late again, Darius," Elara said softly, not glancing up from her herbs. "Your aura shows exhaustion."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Your visions always find me, Elara. Perhaps I work too much." Then his gaze shifted to Selene, holding her too long. "Or perhaps I notice things others don't."
Her stomach tightened. Does he suspect?
Before the silence grew unbearable, the bell clanged again and another villager stumbled in, pale-faced, panting.
"Selene!" he gasped. "Wolves! Near the northern ridge!"
The room stilled.
Selene's blood ran cold.
Not wolves. Not ordinary ones, at least. She knew what kind he meant.
"Hunters saw them," the man stammered. "Eyes glowing in the dark. Three, maybe four. They swear it was the Alpha's pack."
The Alpha's pack.
Selene's pulse hammered in her ears. Memories surged….screams, fire, silver eyes burning into hers under a blood moon.
Lucian Blackthorn.
Elara's hand found hers beneath the counter, trembling. "Selene…" she whispered, her voice nearly breaking. In Elara's eyes, Selene saw the flicker of vision…. fangs, silver light, blood on snow.
Selene swallowed the dread clawing her throat. "Warn the villagers," she told the man. "Doors bolted after dusk. Lanterns lit. Wolves hate fire."
Darius's hand slid to the dagger at his belt. His sharp gaze never left her. "And what about you, Selene?"
Her fingers brushed the pouch tied at her hip, moonstone dust, ready for spells of protection. She lifted her chin, forcing her fear down. "I know how to defend myself."
But deep inside, she wasn't certain.
Because if the Alpha himself was near, no charm, no potion, no careful disguise could protect her. Not from the wolf who haunted her dreams, the one who had spared her when he should have killed her.
The bell above the door rang again. This time the sound seemed sharper, cutting through the tension.
A figure stepped into the apothecary, cloaked in black. He filled the doorway, tall, broad, radiating quiet authority that silenced even the bustling square outside.
And when the hood shifted, catching the morning light, Selene's breath caught.
Silver eyes. Cold, unyielding, yet searing as though they looked into her very soul.
Lucian Blackthorn had found her.
The air in the shop thickened, every sound fading except for the frantic pounding of her heart. Elara's hand gripped hers tighter, but Selene could not look away.
The Alpha of the Moonfang Pack stood before her.
The monster. The man.
The prophecy's curse.
And with one glance, the careful life Selene had built began to crumble.
The Moonlit Transformation had begun.