The dream came again.
Soft moonlight bathed the trees in silver. Aria stood barefoot on a stone circle, her skin glowing with the mark over her heart. Wind whispered her name—Aria… Aria…—carried by a woman's voice she didn't recognize, yet felt deep in her bones.
Then came the sensation—heavy, magnetic, pulling her toward something ancient… something watching.
She woke with a gasp, damp curls clinging to her neck, heart hammering like war drums. The room was quiet, but the air felt heavy, thick with something unseen.
She glanced at the clock. 4:17 a.m.
Again.
Always the same time.
At breakfast, her mother frowned when Aria reached for a mug and winced.
"Are you feeling alright, baby? You look pale."
"I didn't sleep great," Aria admitted. "Just… weird dreams."
"About what?"
"Nothing clear. Just the moon. And a voice. I think I've had it before."
Her mother stilled. "You've had dreams like this since you were little. Around your birthday every year."
"I did?"
Her mom nodded slowly. "You used to wake up crying. You'd say the moon was calling you."
Aria blinked. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Her mother hesitated. "I don't know. I guess… we thought you'd grow out of it."
Her father leaned in from across the table. "Dreams don't mean anything. The mate bond changes your body, that's all. Hormones. Magic. Both."
But the look he gave her said he wasn't entirely sure.
Later, Dorian brought her wildflowers. "From the southern ridge," he said with a smile. "The kind you like."
She smiled, touched by the gesture, but his eyes were darker than usual—watchful.
"Did you dream again last night?" he asked casually.
Aria froze. "How'd you know?"
"I figured you might. Some wolves are more sensitive."
Something in his voice sounded rehearsed. "Why would you think I'm sensitive?"
Dorian leaned in, brushing hair from her face. "Because you're not just anyone. You're… extraordinary."
Her heart fluttered. It sounded romantic. But her wolf shied from the words.
Later, when she washed the flowers to place in a vase, she noticed a faint shimmer on their stems—like dust. Magic?
She frowned, shaking it off. Maybe she was just tired.
That night, her dream changed.
This time, the woman spoke clearly.
"Daughter of moonlight. Marked. Bound. Beware the one who knows."
Aria sat up in bed, gasping.
Across the room, her mirror glowed faintly, her crescent birthmark shining like moonstone in the reflection.
And miles away, in the shadows beyond the borderlands, a cloaked woman stirred beside a fire—her fingers tracing runes in ash. Her voice hissed softly:
"She dreams. Good."