~Aethelia~
The new moon does not visit.
It hunts.
Tonight, it wants blood. It wants it through me.
It never comes gentle. Three days. Sometimes four. That is how long the dark spirit lives inside me. I do not control it. I do not slow it. I only wait and pray the walls hold.
Did the Moon Goddess forget me?
Is this how I will live forever?
Heat curls under my ribs like coal. My jaw aches from clenching it too long.
Training ends early. Steel clinks. Boots scrape dirt. Laughter fades. The sun has not fully set, but the sky darkens anyway. No one lingers when the new moon draws close.
I don't dream of power or rank. I dream of protecting the pack.
I only want control over the darkness inside me, a life where no one dies because of me, and someone to believe I am not a monster.
Almost an hour to the shrine. Almost an hour to safety. Or I will be lost.
My fingers tighten around the sword. My wolf hums beneath my skin, low and restless. The air tastes sharp. Cold. Thin.
Then I see him.
Kael.
Alpha of the Lunareth pack.
He stands on the ridge, dark against the dying light. Broad shoulders. Hair tied back. Plain tunic, but every seam sits straight. He moves like the ground belongs to him.
He watches me before I reach the gate.
"Aethelia."
He says my name like it carries weight.
I bow. "My Alpha."
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He dislikes the title when I use it with so much respect.
"You didn't come to training yesterday."
He says it like he checks on me every day.
"I've been busy," I reply.
"With what?" His eyes narrow. "Staying out of trouble?"
I do not answer. That almost earns a smile.
The noise around us fades. Torches flicker in the wind. The small circle at the base of my neck cools beneath his gaze, like water poured over flame.
I freeze.
In my entire life, I have never seen such a thing. The mark never cools when the spirit is near. It burns. It warns. That is the only sign I know.
Now it is cold.
He steps closer. Not touching.
"You look tired," he says, quieter.
I meet his eyes longer than I should. Something tightens between us. A thin thread pulled from both ends. My heart stumbles. My wolf presses forward. His scent shifts. His shoulders stiffen.
"Did you feel that?" His hand trembles once before he stills it.
"Yes," I say quietly. "I can't explain it."
I should step back. I don't.
He studies me in silence. He does not dismiss it.
The coolness at my throat lingers.
Not now.
"I have somewhere to be."
He watches me leave but does not stop me.
"I can't stay," I whisper.
I run.
The road cuts through low trees and brush. Branches scrape my arms. Leaves slap my face. My breath burns. Every step is a promise of stone walls and iron bars.
When I reach my sister's house, I bend forward, hands on my knees. Clay walls. Stone base. Thatch roof. Home.
Orla, my elder sister and Beta of our pack, waits inside.
Her hair is tied neatly. Her eyes are sharp and alert. She wears plain home cloth. Nothing fancy. She does not need a cloak to command presence.
Since childhood, she has handled my curse herself, taking me from our parents' house whenever the new moon comes. She defends me fiercely. Loves me more than anyone.
"No time," she says.
Her voice is low, urgent.
I almost believe I made it in time.
She rushes me toward the room to prepare. She does not let me rest.
Weapons drop one by one: sword, dagger, spearhead. They strike the floor with dull sounds. I pull off my leather vest and let it fall. Sweat cools fast.
I move quickly. She follows close behind.
The shrine crouches behind the house like something waiting. Thick stone. No windows. Candles line the walls. Ash spreads in a wide circle on the floor.
The shrine only holds if the door is barred from the outside before the spirit peaks. One small mistake and bones will fall to dust.
I step inside.
The door slams.
Iron scrapes.
The outer bar drops into place.
For a while, nothing happens.
Then a headache blooms behind my eyes.
The circle at my neck warms.
Hotter.
It rises into a roar beneath my skin. Something claws for the crack it always finds.
Then the spirit hits.
Pain tears down my spine. My fingers stretch. Nails split. Joints grind. Something heavy pushes under my ribs.
I scream.
The sound that leaves me is wrong. Deep. Rough. Layered over my own.
An invisible force slams me back into the wall. The shrine answers my violence. Since childhood, it has been my prison and my shield. When I throw myself at it, it throws me harder.
Candles flicker out one by one.
Time fractures.
I count by hunger. By the scrape of bowls pushed through the slot. I do not sleep.
***
On the third day, I heard three slow knocks.
"Aethelia," Orla calls.
I press my forehead to the stone. "I'm here."
"Say my name."
"Sister."
The bar lifts. The door opens just enough. She carries a bowl. Steam rises. My favorite stew.
She sets it down but keeps her distance.
"You'll be fine," she says softly. "It will pass."
I kneel and eat. My hands shake, but I keep control.
She rests her hand briefly on my shoulder, then rushes away when she smells the stew burning.
The door shuts.
An hour later, the spirit surges back stronger than before.
My body slams into the wall. Stone cracks. Pain slices through me.
I stagger toward the door.
My palm hits wood.
It swings open.
Too easily.
My breath stops.
The bar is not in place.
Orla forgot to lock it while she rushed to the burning food.
A simple mistake.
The kind that kills.
Sunlight spills into the shrine.
The yard lies still. I do not see my sister. I do not see anyone.
For one brief moment, I feel relieved. No one will be taken.
Then the spirit inside me screams for blood.
I burst out.
Branches rip my skin. I do not feel them.
"Kora," I whisper inside my mind. "Hold. Fight it."
My wolf hums, sharp and tense.
A young man steps into the path ahead.
He calls my name, fear cracking his voice.
"Aethelia—"
The spirit inside me snaps.
Not yet.
I force my hands into fists. I bite my cheek. Blood fills my mouth.
I try to shout a warning, but my voice catches in my throat.
Kora strains with me, holding the darkness back.
The man vanishes through the trees before it reaches him.
My mind narrows to one ugly truth.
I hate being judged a murderer for something I cannot stop.
I hate the way bodies turn to sand in my hands.
Among the oldest warriors, some believe bodies turning to sand is not a curse, but the sign of an ancient lunar judgment no longer understood.
If that is true, why am I the one it chooses?
I keep running.
Before I can get far, the spirit begins to recede.
My knees buckle. I collapse onto the public road. Weak. Helpless.
A woman passes and screams, "Witch!"
More gather at a distance, shouting, "Monster!"
"Traitor!"
Ashamed, I focus only on one thing.
I pray the dark spirit does not return here before it harms anyone.
"Enough."
Kael's voice cuts the air.
Everyone freezes.
"Dismiss," he commands.
One by one, they leave. A cool breeze brushes my face.
Kael walks slowly toward me.
Our gazes lock.
The circle at my throat flares, then goes cold.
He kneels in the dirt. His hand closes around my wrist. Pain flashes across his face, but he does not release me.
"Don't touch me," I rasp. "You know what I am."
"Then fight it," he says softly.
For a terrible second, I consider letting the darkness return.
Instead, his thumb brushes dirt from my cheek.
"Don't let them touch you," he says.
Then he slides one arm under my knees and the other around my back.
Strong. Certain.
For the first time in my life, a man holds me without hesitation.
Others always keep their distance. They fear what lives inside me.
He does not.
He does not let go. As if letting go would be the real mistake.
My body fits him like it has known that shape before. His heartbeat steadies under my ear. Calm.
A dangerous comfort.
Why does it feel like my body already knows the shape of him?