The ceremonial robe scratches against my skin, rough-spun linen dyed the color of dried blood. It hangs loose over my swollen belly, the sash tied too tight beneath my breasts. I keep pulling at the neckline, but there's no fixing this—no hiding the human frailty beneath the borrowed trappings of a Luna.
The clearing hums with restless energy. Wolves move through torchlight like shadows given form, their murmurs blending with the crackle of the central bonfire. The scent of pine resin and something darker—musk, iron, anticipation—thickens the air until each breath feels like swallowing smoke.
Reid appears at my elbow, offering a clay cup. "Drink."
The liquid inside smells like crushed herbs and rainwater. "What is it?"
"To strengthen the bond." His eyes dart toward the tree line where Arthur stands surrounded by elders. "And calm the child during the Shift."
I almost laugh. Nothing could calm this child. Not when the moon hangs fat and heavy above us, its pull like fingers kneading my spine. The baby rolls beneath my ribs, restless as the wolves circling the fire.
Arthur strips without ceremony.
His skin glows bronze in the firelight, muscles shifting like liquid as the elders anoint him with oil that smells of cedar and grave dirt. Their chanting rises—guttural words that raise the hair on my arms.
Then the pain begins.
I feel it through the bond before I see it—white-hot splinters of agony as bones reshape, as skin splits and reforms. The pack falls to their knees in unison, a wave of shared torment that crashes through me like a second labor. My vision tunnels.
Someone grips my wrist—Reid, his fingers warm against my clammy skin. "Don't look away, Luna."
Arthur's back arches. His scream isn't human.
Flesh ripples. Dark fur erupts along his spine as his hands twist into massive paws. The transformation isn't graceful like in stories. It's violent. Beautiful. Terrifying.
When it's over, a black wolf stands where Arthur was. Larger than the others, his golden eyes burning with the same cold intelligence. He shakes himself, sending droplets of blood and oil flying, then pins me with that gaze.
I should be afraid.
I am.
But something deeper stirs in my gut—an answering heat that has nothing to do with fear. The baby kicks hard, as if reaching for him.
The Run begins.
Wolves stream into the forest, their howls raising gooseflesh along my arms. I'm left standing by the fire with the elders and guards, the bond stretching thin as they disappear into the trees. Their joy floods through me—wind in fur, earth under paws, the pure animal thrill of the chase. It's intoxicating. Alien.
"Strange, isn't it?"
The voice rasps like dry leaves. An ancient woman—Elara, the pack's seer—settles beside me on the log. Her milky eyes reflect the firelight unnervingly.
"You feel their freedom," she says, "but not your own."
I press a hand to my belly. "I don't belong here."
Elara's chuckle rattles in her chest. "The child disagrees."
As if summoned, that strange energy flickers beneath my skin—not quite wolf, not quite human. A spark in the dark.
Elara's nostrils flare. "Ah. The Convergence stirs."
The word sends ice down my spine. "What do you mean?"
But she only smiles, revealing teeth filed to points. "Two worlds in one womb. The old magic hungers for balance." Her claw-like hand hovers over my stomach. "Your human heart will be its weakness. And its salvation."
Before I can demand answers, a chorus of howls erupts nearby. The pack returns, tongues lolling, eyes bright with the hunt's aftermath. Arthur—no, the wolf—pads straight to me, his muzzle streaked with fresh blood.
I don't breathe as he nudges my knee with his massive head. Hot breath gusts against my thigh. The elders murmur.
Reid exhales sharply. "He's never done that before."
The wolf's golden eyes lock onto mine. In them, I see the man and the beast—and something else, something that makes my pulse stutter.
Then he's gone, melting into the shadows to complete the ritual.
By the time Arthur returns in human form, dressed and composed, the fire has burned low. He smells of the forest and something darker, muskier. His fingers graze the back of my neck as he passes, sending sparks down my spine.
"The child responded to the moon." His voice is rough from the Change.
I don't ask how he knows. We both felt it—that surge of power when the howls reached their peak. Like called to like.
Arthur studies me with unsettling focus. "Elara spoke to you."
I stiffen. "She said strange things."
"Old prophecies." His thumb brushes my jaw, calloused and warm. "The pack needs an heir. But the child..." His gaze drops to my stomach, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with bloodlines. "The child could be so much more."
The embers crackle between us.
Later, alone in our chambers, Arthur presses me against the door, his body still thrumming with residual energy from the Run. His mouth finds the racing pulse at my throat.
"You felt it too," he murmurs against my skin. "The pull."
I don't answer. Can't.
Because I did.
And that terrifies me more than any prophecy.
Outside, the last echoes of the Run fade into silence. Inside, the child glows faintly beneath my skin—a secret light growing brighter with each passing moon.
Elara's words haunt me. Two worlds in one womb.
I press my hands to my belly, trying to shield that flickering ember from the gathering dark.
But some fires refuse to be contained.