Born Beneath the Moon
The moon was full the night the silver wolf was born.
It hung low over the Frostclaw forest, heavy and watchful, bathing the snow in pale light. The trees stood silent, their branches bent beneath ice, as if bowing to something unseen. Even the wind moved carefully, whispering instead of howling.
Beneath the roots of a fallen pine, a she-wolf labored quietly.
Her breath came in slow clouds. Around her, the forest listened.
One by one, her pups entered the world—small, blind, dark-furred. Ordinary. Safe. The kind of pups the Frostclaw pack had raised for generations.
Then the last pup was born.
The mother froze.
His fur shimmered faintly even before his eyes opened, pale as frost, bright as moonlight on snow. Not white. Not gray.
Silver.
The forest seemed to inhale.
The mother curled around him instantly, shielding his tiny body with her own, her heart pounding. She had heard the stories. All wolves had. Stories spoken softly around winter fires, stories the elders claimed were only legends.
Silver wolves walk between worlds.
Silver wolves bring change.
Change brings ruin.
The pup let out a soft cry, unaware of the weight his existence carried.
Above them, the moon burned brighter.
By dawn, the pack knew.
The elders gathered at the den entrance, their eyes sharp, their voices low. The Alpha stood apart, silent, watching the silver-furred pup press against his mother's side.
"A Moon-Touched," one elder said.
"A mistake," said another.
"A warning," whispered a third.
The mother lifted her head, teeth flashing.
"He is my son."
The Alpha raised his tail, commanding silence.
"We will not judge what has just been born," he said slowly. "The forest itself will decide."
The words were law—but not comfort.
The silver wolf grew under watchful eyes.
As a pup, he was quiet. While his siblings tumbled and bit at each other's ears, he watched. He listened. His gaze lingered on things others ignored—the movement of shadows, the way snow shifted before a storm, the pull of the moon overhead.
Other pups noticed his difference quickly.
"Ghost-fur," they called him.
"Cold-star."
Some refused to play with him at all.
When he ran, he ran alone.
Only his mother never looked at him with doubt. She groomed his silver fur as tenderly as if it were gold.
"You shine because you are meant to," she whispered to him one night as the moonlight spilled into the den. "Never forget that."
He didn't understand her words—but he felt them settle deep inside him.
As seasons passed, the elders watched and waited.
They waited for him to fail.
But he didn't.
He learned to hunt as quickly as the others. He followed pack rules. He respected boundaries. Still, whenever prey grew scarce or storms struck early, eyes turned toward him.
As if his fur could bend fate.
As if difference were guilt.
Sometimes, when the pack slept, the silver wolf dreamed.
He dreamed of running across endless skies, of wolves made of light racing beside him, their howls echoing among the stars. When he woke, his heart ached—not with fear, but with longing.
He did not yet know why.
He only knew one truth, even as a pup:
No matter how closely he stood among them,
he was already apart.
And beneath the watching moon, the forest waited for the moment it would decide his fate.
"We will not judge what has just been born," he said slowly. "The forest itself will decide."
The words were law—but not comfort.
The silver wolf grew under watchful eyes.
As a pup, he was quiet. While his siblings tumbled and bit at each other's ears, he watched. He listened. His gaze lingered on things others ignored—the movement of shadows, the way snow shifted before a storm, the pull of the moon overhead.
Other pups noticed his difference quickly.
"Ghost-fur," they called him.
"Cold-star."
Some refused to play with him at all.
When he ran, he ran alone.
Only his mother never looked at him with doubt. She groomed his silver fur as tenderly as if it were gold.
"You shine because you are meant to," she whispered to him one night as the moonlight spilled into the den. "Never forget that."
He didn't understand her words—but he felt them settle deep inside him.
As seasons passed, the elders watched and waited.
They waited for him to fail.
But he didn't.
He learned to hunt as quickly as the others. He followed pack rules. He respected boundaries. Still, whenever prey grew scarce or storms struck early, eyes turned toward him.
As if his fur could bend fate.
As if difference were guilt.
Sometimes, when the pack slept, the silver wolf dreamed.
He dreamed of running across endless skies, of wolves made of light racing beside him, their howls echoing among the stars. When he woke, his heart ached—not with fear, but with longing.
He did not yet know why.
He only knew one truth, even as a pup:
No matter how closely he stood among them,
he was already apart.
And beneath the watching moon, the forest waited for the moment it would decide his fate.