The storm came without warning.
One moment, the forest was still—crickets humming, branches gently swaying under a navy sky. The next, the clouds above Luna's shelter split open with a bone-deep groan, and rain poured like fury.
Luna blinked against the sudden onslaught, hands pressed to the damp earth as she scrambled to reinforce the lean-to she had built near the ridge. The rain came sideways, driven by wind that seemed angry with the land itself.
She should've been scared.
But her heart beat steady.
This storm wasn't wild.
It was familiar.
Earlier that morning, Luna had woken to find the small scar beneath her collarbone glowing faintly.
It wasn't painful.
Just… alive.
A low, pulsing warmth that responded to her emotions. When she felt fear, it flickered. When she stood barefoot in the stream, it thrummed with the current.
It was the same sensation she'd felt during the dream—the same silent pull she'd sensed in the moonlight since leaving Moonshadow Pack.
She hadn't told anyone.
There was no one to tell.
But her body was changing.
Her senses stretched farther. She could detect the shift of a single leaf behind her. Hear the flutter of a raven's wing a mile off. Smell storms before they reached the treetops.
It wasn't normal.
And it wasn't just instinct.
It was something else.
Something older.
By midday, she had gathered enough herbs to stock her satchel: yarrow for cuts, dandelion for detox, juniper for scent-masking. Her routine had become that of a seasoned rogue—efficient, cautious, alert.
But her mind burned with questions.
The Moon Goddess hadn't revealed everything in the dream.
What was awakening inside her?
Why had no one in the pack—no Elder, no healer—ever told her about her bloodline?
And why did her pulse echo like wind through hollow bone every time she was near water or light?
As the storm raged into the evening, Luna crouched in the center of a small clearing. The downpour washed her skin, flattened her hair against her back, soaked the linen wraps on her arms. But she didn't move.
She felt it now.
Deep beneath the rain, behind the thunder.
Something in her chest was unraveling.
Not painfully.
But like a door opening.
The world around her slowed. Each raindrop fell in a hush. The trees leaned inward. The wind circled her like a breath.
Her fingers sparked faintly—silver and pale blue.
She gasped, staring at her hands.
Electric strands danced between her fingertips.
Like moonlight made solid.
Suddenly, the hairs on her neck rose.
Not from the storm.
From something else.
A presence.
She turned—and saw the eyes.
Glowing amber.
Low to the ground.
A massive shape emerged from behind the trees. Fur slick with rain, muscles rippling beneath its thick hide, claws like obsidian knives.
It wasn't a wolf.
It was a warg.
A twisted, feral cousin of the wolf—twice the size, and bred only for killing.
Luna froze.
Her heart stuttered.
She had heard of them in whispers—rogue beasts that prowled the farthest borders, corrupted by rage, exiled by their own kind. This one bore deep scars across its flank and a broken fang jutting from its lip.
It was hungry.
And it had found her.
The warg charged.
Luna dove aside, narrowly missing a swipe that would've opened her ribcage. She rolled through mud, scraping her arm on a root, and scrambled to her feet.
The beast snarled and lunged again.
This time she didn't dodge.
She stepped into it.
She planted her feet in the earth, raised both hands—and something snapped.
Not bone.
Not sound.
Power.
It surged through her like a scream.
The wind around her erupted, forming a wall of air that struck the beast mid-charge, flinging it backward with a howl.
Luna's eyes glowed.
Not just bright—but blinding.
She staggered back, gasping, her fingers crackling with raw energy. The rain now danced around her body in a spiral, never touching her skin.
The warg rose again, dazed but snarling.
It lunged once more.
This time Luna raised her palm, and the ground beneath the beast shook.
Roots burst upward like spears, wrapping around the creature's limbs and throat. It thrashed violently—but it couldn't move.
Luna stepped forward, breath heavy.
The storm stilled around her. The rain hovered midair, frozen like stars suspended in time.
And the beast—so mighty, so relentless—lay at her feet, trembling.
She could kill it.
She could crush its throat in a heartbeat.
But instead, she whispered, "Go."
The vines loosened.
The warg stared at her, chest heaving.
Then, slowly, it backed away—limping—until it vanished into the trees.
Silence returned.
The storm broke.
And Luna collapsed to her knees, the energy vanishing from her body like a departing tide.
She breathed.
Shivered.
Laughed.
Not in joy.
In disbelief.
She had done that.
Later, wrapped in dry leaves near a rekindled fire, Luna stared at her glowing hands.
The scar beneath her collarbone pulsed faintly.
The whisper of the goddess returned—not words, but presence.
An affirmation.
She was no ordinary wolf.
No outcast.
No orphan of weakness.
Her bloodline held something ancient.
Wild.
Powerful.
And this…
This was only the beginning.
Far away, in a chamber lit by moonstone fire, Elder Lyra gasped, clutching her chest.
"She's awakening," she said, eyes wide.
Marros stepped forward. "The elemental signature—?"
"Confirmed," Lyra breathed. "Wind. Root. Light. She's inherited all three."
"That's impossible."
"No," she said, shaking. "It's divine."
They stared at the map of the wildlands, marked with stones and sigils.
"She is no longer just a rogue," Lyra whispered. "She is prophecy."
Meanwhile, Orion stood alone on the highest ledge of Moonshadow Cliff.
The moon hung low.
And for the first time since the rejection, the bond pulsed in his chest—not weak, not dull.
But throbbing.
Alive.
And afraid.