Two moons watched over Westery that night.
One shone silver, cold and serene. The other bled red light across the plains, as though the heavens themselves foresaw what was to come.
High within Westfield's citadel, Selene Solari Malcolm labored beneath their glow. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the ancient wards around her chambers humming with both light and shadow. Aleric West stood at her side, his foxfire eyes fixed on the woman he loved, even as distant war drums beat from the hills beyond.
When the first cry broke the silence, it was clear the child carried more than mortal blood. The second cry came moments later, the sound cutting through the wind like a blade. Jason and Jackson — twins born under opposing moons, yet bound by a single heartbeat.
But as midwives whispered blessings, a deeper voice stirred. It was not human, nor beast, but something older — a prophecy etched into the marrow of the world:
> "When the twin moons weep, their blood shall drown the clans.
One to guard the mind, one to wield the flame.
Both shall fall, and the night will remember."
Even before their first breath had fully faded, the omen had spread beyond the citadel walls. Allies and enemies alike felt its weight. For the warewolves, it was the call to arms they had awaited. For the other clans, it was the spark of uncertainty — the kind that burned away treaties and turned kin into rivals.
The silver moon hid behind clouds. The red moon burned brighter.
And far beyond Westery, in shadows untouched by light, an unseen power smiled.