LEGACY OF THE MOONBORN
The wind carried the scent of harvest through the trees—ripe berries, turned soil, and the smoky warmth of hearths lit before dusk. Autumn had come to Silvercrest.
Luna stood by the edge of the central orchard, watching pups race between the trees. Their laughter echoed, chasing birds into flight.
Beside her, Brin crouched to check the pulse of a small boy who had tripped and landed squarely in a patch of moss.
"He's fine," she said, smiling. "Just wanted attention."
Luna raised an eyebrow. "Are you speaking from healer instinct… or past experience?"
Brin smirked. "Both."
As she rose, a young girl ran up to Luna, silver-haired and gap-toothed, clutching a journal.
"Alpha Moon!" the girl cried. "Will you sign my storybook?"
Luna took the book gently and flipped through it. Inside were drawings—crude but full of heart. Herself, Kael, Asher, Rae, Brin, and Nyla. The child's version of the heroes of Silvercrest.
Luna signed the first page: To the next Moonborn. Write your own story.
The girl squealed, hugged her leg, and disappeared into the trees.
"Do you ever wonder what happens next?" Brin asked.
Luna turned toward her. "All the time."
She had thought peace would be a quiet thing.
Instead, it buzzed with life.
Wolves still came from distant lands, seeking guidance. The old wounds of the realm had not vanished, but they no longer defined them.
Luna had become more than a symbol.
She had become a seed.
And everywhere she stepped, the world bloomed.
The Moonborn were not a bloodline.
They were a truth.
An idea.
Once, Solana had told Luna that the Moon chose only once per era. But Luna no longer believed in limits.
She believed in sparks.
She began to search for them.
The first she found was a boy from Icebourne—half-witch, half-wolf, rejected by both bloodlines. He could speak to wind. Luna welcomed him to the Sanctuary of Echoes.
Then came a blind girl from Hollowpine who could see through dreams. A lone warrior from the desert with claws like fire and a heart that never bowed.
And others.
She trained them, not in obedience—but in questioning. Not in hierarchy—but in responsibility.
"You're not my legacy," she told them. "You're your own."
They called themselves the Circle of Moonborn.
Kael taught them how to listen to the world.
Asher taught them patience.
Brin taught them to mend what others cast away.
Nyla taught them to wield fire without burning.
Rae taught them to disappear and return stronger.
And Luna? She taught them how to choose.
Because legacy was not what she left behind.
It was what she helped others find.
One night, the stars fell.
Not as destruction.
But as a sign.
A great light streaked across the northern sky, visible across every territory. Pack elders called it the Return of the Arc.
An ancient realm, sealed by time.
Luna gathered the council.
"It's calling us," she said. "Or warning us."
Kael crossed his arms. "Do we respond?"
Rae shrugged. "When has that ever stopped us?"
Brin smiled faintly. "A journey. It's been a while."
Nyla cracked her knuckles. "Let's wake up the old magic."
They prepared.
It took days to gather enough energy to open a rift between worlds. The Moonroot Grove became their launch point. Every elder and seer gathered.
Luna stood in the center, her markings glowing.
She cut a line across the air.
The world split.
And the Arc opened.
Beyond it: a city made of mirrors. A sky like molten silver. Wolves who remembered the First Age.
They were waiting.
"You carry her mark," said their leader—a towering woman with glass for eyes. "You carry Solana's fire."
Luna stepped forward. "I carry my own."
They didn't bow.
They opened their gates.
The Arc was not untouched by time.
It was fractured.
Not in ruins—but in spirit.
They had waited too long. Feared too deeply. Locked away the truth.
Luna listened.
Then she led.
Not by decree.
By offering.
Stories. Songs. Firelight. The simple things. The things that bind.
One by one, the Arc wolves joined her cause. They journeyed back to Silvercrest. Learned the new ways. Taught their old ones.
A new pack was born.
One without borders.
Years passed.
Children of children began to shift.
And they weren't afraid.
The name Luna Morgan became a story.
A myth.
A living one.
And when Luna finally stepped down from the Circle—when she finally passed her sigil to the next chosen—she didn't disappear.
She walked.
Forest to forest.
Home to home.
Sometimes as a guest.
Sometimes as a healer.
Sometimes as a shadow.
But always as a spark.
Because the legacy of the Moonborn was not power.
It was choice.
And she had chosen.
Again.
And again.