"The moon does not heal — it remembers. And under its gaze, all wounds reopen."
⸻
The Silver Order found him three days after the fire.
He didn't remember being carried back through the ruins of the village. He didn't remember the torchlight or the whispers that followed him. The last thing Lin Wuji recalled was the woman's voice — low, steady, promising safety as everything else turned to ash.
Now he was awake.
The scent of herbs filled his nose. The bed beneath him was rough but warm. His wounded hand — the one the beast had bitten — no longer hurt. The bandages were clean, and when he flexed his fingers, there was no pain, only a faint pulling sensation, as if the flesh had sealed too perfectly.
Too quickly.
He sat up slowly, the blanket sliding down his chest. The room was small — a field clinic converted into a shelter. Faint light streamed through the cracked window.
Outside, the world was gray and quiet.
For a long time, Wuji just stared at his hand. The skin was unbroken, smooth, pale — as if the creature's fangs had never touched him. But deep beneath the surface, he could still feel it — the echo of the bite, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Then came the memories.
The screams.
His father's sword breaking.
His mother's voice shouting his name.
The fire devouring everything they'd ever built.
He pressed his hand over his eyes and breathed until the room stopped spinning.
He was alive. But he didn't know why.
⸻
The door creaked.
A figure stepped inside — tall, calm, silver-eyed. The woman from the forest.
"Lin Wuji?" she said.
He looked up, recognizing the voice.
"You're awake."
He nodded faintly. "Where am I?"
"In what's left of your village," she said. "The Order set up a temporary post here. You were found unconscious in the northern woods. You'd lost a lot of blood."
Her gaze swept across his arm. "But you seem to have recovered."
Wuji lowered his hand. "I guess so."
"I'm Captain Elira," she said, stepping closer. "You're lucky we found you when we did."
"I don't feel lucky," he murmured.
"You survived," she said quietly.
He met her eyes. "They didn't."
Elira's jaw tightened. "No. I'm sorry."
The silence that followed was long and cold. Outside, the snow began to fall again.
Finally, she asked, "Were you bitten?"
His heart jumped.
He hesitated for a fraction too long. "No."
"You're certain?"
He rolled up his sleeve. "See for yourself."
The skin was clean. Unblemished.
Elira studied him carefully, her eyes narrowing as if searching for something unseen. Then she nodded. "Good. Then you're safe."
She turned toward the door. "Get some rest, Lin Wuji. We'll talk again soon."
When she left, Wuji sank back into the cot. His hand tingled — not in pain, but in memory.
He closed his eyes. The darkness behind them pulsed like breath.
⸻
Days passed.
The Silver Order buried the dead, patrolled the ruins, and catalogued the wreckage. The village that once hummed with life had become a graveyard beneath the snow.
Wuji watched them from the window — the way their silver weapons glinted, the way their eyes never stopped scanning the treeline.
Sometimes, when the wind shifted, he thought he could hear something in the forest — faint, distant howls that no one else seemed to notice.
He told himself it was the wind.
He told himself he believed that.
⸻
Elira came to him on the third evening. She looked more human this time — her armor set aside, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
"You should eat," she said, setting a bowl of broth beside him.
He didn't touch it. "I'm not hungry."
"You've said that every night."
"I don't feel hungry."
Her eyes flicked toward his untouched hand. "Not for this kind of food?"
He frowned. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just an observation."
She sat across from him, folding her arms. "We've seen attacks like this before — whole villages erased in one night. But the pattern's different this time. They weren't just killing."
"What were they doing?"
"Hunting something specific," she said. "Something that ran."
Her words lingered in the air. Wuji's heart thudded once — hard.
Elira didn't notice, or pretended not to. "You're safe here," she added. "The Order will protect you."
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to trust her calm certainty. But deep down, something stirred — a voice too quiet to be his own.
They'll never protect you. You're not one of them anymore.
He closed his eyes, and the voice faded into the sound of the wind.
⸻
At night, the dreams returned.
He was running through the forest again — faster than any human should. Branches tore at his face, but he didn't feel pain. The moon above burned brighter than the sun, and his breath came out as steam, hot and heavy.
Then came the scent — blood, sharp and familiar.
He followed it.
When he reached the clearing, he saw himself standing there — not as a boy, but as something larger, feral, eyes glowing gold.
The creature turned toward him and smiled with his own teeth.
Wuji woke screaming, his throat raw. His nails dug into the mattress.
When he looked down, there was blood beneath them.
He didn't remember where it came from.
⸻
On the seventh night, the moon rose full.
It lit the snow like fire, washing the ruins in silver. The Order moved like shadows along the village perimeter, their torches flickering against the frost.
Inside the clinic, Wuji sat awake, his breath uneven. The light from the window crawled across his skin, and everywhere it touched, he burned.
His bones ached. His veins pulsed with something heavy and wild.
He couldn't sit still. His body wanted to move — to run.
He tried to hold onto thought, reason, humanity. But it slipped through his fingers like water.
The sound that left his throat wasn't human.
He stood, stumbled to the door, and stepped into the cold.
The forest called.
⸻
He didn't remember running, but he ran.
Snow flew beneath his feet, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the earth. His senses sharpened — the air rich with scent and sound.
He moved with purpose, not memory. His body no longer obeyed his will.
When the moonlight struck his face, something inside him gave way.
He dropped to his knees and screamed — but the sound twisted into a growl.
The last thing he remembered was the taste of iron on his tongue.
⸻
When dawn came, the forest was silent again.
Lin Wuji lay among the trees, his clothes torn, his body trembling. The snow around him was stained red.
He sat up slowly, pain wracking every muscle. His hands were slick with blood. His mouth tasted of copper.
Then he saw them — the remains of animals scattered in the clearing, torn apart by something savage.
He stared in horror. "No…"
His voice broke.
He stumbled to a nearby stream and scrubbed until his skin bled, but the stain wouldn't leave his memory.
When he looked into the water, his reflection rippled — for a moment, not his face, but the creature's. The one from his dream.
He staggered back, gasping.
⸻
By dusk, he returned to the clinic.
No one saw him slip through the alleys. No one saw the blood he'd left behind.
He climbed into his cot and waited for the tremors to stop.
An hour later, Elira entered.
"You're awake," she said, watching him closely.
He forced a weak smile. "I guess I am."
"You slept through the night?"
"I think so."
"No dreams?"
He hesitated. "None I remember."
She studied him. "You look pale."
"I'm tired."
Elira nodded slowly. "Rest, then. We'll talk later."
He watched her leave, his chest tight.
When the door clicked shut, he raised his hands in the dim light.
Clean. Steady. Human.
But he could still taste blood between his teeth.
Something was growing inside him — patient, waiting, hungry.
And though he didn't yet understand it, Lin Wuji knew one truth above all:
The wolves hadn't spared him.
They had chosen him.