My fingers leave streaks in the grime coating the shelves as I trace the spines of leather-bound tomes. The pack's history sits heavy in this room, pressing against my temples like a gathering storm.
I shouldn't be here.
The thought makes me grip the current volume tighter. That's exactly why I came.
Moonlight filters through the high windows, illuminating fragments of text as I flip pages. Most entries detail territorial disputes, bloodlines, lunar cycles. Then—there. A single phrase jumps out, the ink faded but still sharp as a knife wound: The Convergence.
My pulse stutters. The baby rolls lazily, as if stirred by the words.
"When human and wolf blood merge under the Hunter's Moon," the text whispers, "the child shall bridge worlds, their power a beacon to friend and foe alike."
The next page is torn out.
A floorboard creaks behind me. I slam the book shut, heart hammering, but it's only the young mother from the kitchens—Mira, her name is Mira—balancing a toddler on her hip. The little boy's knee is scraped, his distress a faint prickle along my skin even from across the room.
Mira's nostrils flare. "Luna." The title still sounds awkward in her mouth, like she's testing the shape of it. "You're... reading."
It's not quite a question. The toddler sniffles, pressing his face into her neck. Without thinking, I reach for the bond between them—that thread of shared pain—and push.
Just a little. Just enough.
The boy's crying eases. Mira's eyes widen.
"Comfrey root," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "For the scrape. The healers keep some in the stillroom."
A beat. Then, slowly, she nods. There's something new in her scent now—not quite respect, but maybe the seed of it.
The moment shatters when my phone buzzes. Claire's name flashes across the screen like a warning.
You should see what's crawling around your precious estate at night, big sister. Attached is a blurry photo—shadowy figures near the tree line, their movements too fluid, too fast to be human.
Ice floods my veins. Michael's getting bold.
I don't tell Arthur.
Not yet.
Instead, I seek out Elara. The old seer waits in her smoke-filled chamber, bones rattling as she stirs a bubbling cauldron. The air smells of rotting flowers and something darker, something that makes the baby kick in protest.
"You've seen the texts." Elara doesn't look up.
"The Convergence." The word tastes like fate. "Is that what my child is?"
Elara's milky eyes gleam. "A bridge. A key. A threat." Her gnarled fingers dart out, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "The old ones will come for it. Those who fear balance."
A chill crawls up my spine. "What old ones?"
Her laugh rasps like dead leaves. "The kind that remember when wolves were gods."
The nightmare comes that night.
In it, my child glows like captured moonlight, their small body suspended between worlds. Shadowy figures circle—some wolf, some something else entirely. Arthur fights them, his massive wolf form bleeding from a dozen wounds.
Then the voice—hollow, ancient: "The Convergence must be severed."
I wake gasping, my nightgown soaked through. The baby turns restlessly, that strange energy pulsing beneath my skin in time with my racing heart.
Dawn finds me standing before an ancient tapestry in the great hall. The woven scene shows a wolf and woman bathed in silver light, their hands clasped over a radiant child. The threads shimmer when I touch them, alive with some old magic.
My fingers drift to my stomach. The baby presses back, strong. Certain.
No one will sever you.
The vow burns through me, fierce and bright. Not just as a mother. As Luna.
The phone feels heavy in my hand. Claire's message glows accusingly. For once, the fear doesn't paralyze me—it sharpens me.
Arthur answers on the first ring. His voice is sleep-rough, alert. "Lily?"
"Michael's sending people to watch the estate." The words come out steady. "Claire showed me photos."
A beat of silence. Then—approval. Not in words, but in the way his breath changes. "Where are you?"
"Great hall."
"Stay there."
The line goes dead. I exhale, watching dawn paint the tapestry in gold. The woven woman's eyes seem to meet mine across centuries.
I don't know what I am yet—human, Luna, pawn or player. But this child is mine. And I'll be damned before I let the world take them.
The baby kicks again, that strange energy flaring in agreement.