The trees whispered.
Not with wind, but with voices—soft, ancient murmurs that rustled through the high branches like secrets. The Whispering Wilds earned their name honestly. Even the animals moved differently here. Quieter. Wary. As though the forest itself watched and judged.
At the edge of the Wilds, in a village hidden between shadowed oaks and low fog, a little girl stood barefoot in the dirt, staring at the moon.
She couldn't have been more than five years old, and yet something in the way she held herself unsettled the pack. Her name was Seraphina Vale, though the elders rarely spoke it aloud. They called her "the Moonborn," or sometimes "the Silver Child," but never by her true name.
Names held power in the Wilds. And this one—this child—had far too much already.
She didn't speak like other children. Didn't cry when she scraped her knees or flinch at thunder. She never smiled. Her silver eyes, strange and cold, saw things no child should see. Once, she'd wandered into the sacred den during ritual hour, looked straight at the Alpha of the Vale Pack, and said with eerie calm: "You won't live past winter."
He died three weeks later.
The others avoided her after that.
Even her mother, Miriya, a former Omega who had once lived as a rogue, struggled to understand her daughter. Seraphina didn't laugh. Didn't play. Instead, she asked questions. Strange ones.
> "Why does the moon feel familiar?"
"What does it mean to dream of blood?"
"Is it normal to remember dying?"
Miriya lied, gently. "You're just gifted, my love. You see things others don't."
But Seraphina knew better. She didn't just see things. She remembered.
In her dreams, she walked through marble halls and wore silks heavy with jewels. She stood beside a man cloaked in shadows, his voice both beloved and cruel. Sometimes, she woke gasping—hands clenched, chest heaving, a scream trapped in her throat that didn't belong to her.
She didn't know the name Althea Caelum, not yet. But she felt her. Inside. Like a shadow that breathed with her heartbeat.
And every full moon, the dreams grew worse.
---
The Whispering Wilds were lawless by design. Wolves who had been cast out, banished, or broken found refuge there. The Vale Pack was made of survivors: warriors with old scars, mothers who had fled violent mates, sons born without rank.
They didn't follow the old rules. No Alpha ruled absolutely. Decisions were made by vote. Mate bonds were optional, even discouraged. Magic ran through the Wilds in subtle threads—quiet, but alive.
So when Seraphina began to show signs of power, they watched her from afar.
On the night of her sixth moon anniversary, she wandered into the forest alone.
Miriya searched for hours, frantic, calling her name. The forest answered with silence.
But Seraphina wasn't lost. She had followed the moonlight into a glade she had never seen before. The trees parted in a perfect circle. At the center stood a stone—tall, weathered, ancient. Etched with glyphs older than memory.
She approached it without fear.
The moment her fingers brushed the stone, the forest exhaled. Wind swept through the clearing, though the trees did not move. Light shimmered at her feet—symbols lighting up in pale silver. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth opened—and a whisper slipped from her lips in a language long dead.
> "By blood I died. By bond I return."
Her body collapsed. Her wolf screamed.
The Alpha Elders found her hours later, curled in the roots of the stone, glowing faintly. When she awoke, she remembered everything.
Her name.
Her betrayal.
His eyes.
Kael Thorne.
The name echoed in her chest like a curse.
---
"Your daughter isn't… normal," Elder Raen said that night, standing beside Miriya's fire.
"She's mine," Miriya replied, though her voice trembled.
Raen's gaze was grim. "She is not just yours. Not anymore. The Moon Flame recognizes her. That stone hasn't lit since the First Age."
"What does that mean?"
"It means she was chosen. Or cursed."
Miriya crossed her arms. "She's just a child."
"No," Raen said. "She's a Luna reborn."
The days that followed changed everything.
The stone glade where Seraphina collapsed was deemed sacred again, though none dared return. Elder Raen sealed it with binding salt and moon-blooded iron, whispering to the trees to veil it from any wanderers. But the change in the girl couldn't be hidden.
She began to see things. Not just visions, but truths.
She knew when the wolves of the northern border would strike before any messenger arrived. She knew the exact moment old Elder Evaron would collapse from his final breath—she had drawn the crescent falling from the stars in the dirt with a stick the day before.
More than anything, she knew who she used to be. The memories came in flashes—broken glass through soft fingers. A crown of silver branches resting on her brow. Hands wrapped around another's throat. A kiss given in surrender. Chains. Cold. A blade. Eyes like ice watching her bleed.
Kael.
His name tasted like metal in her mouth. It lived on her tongue like a scar.
She never spoke it aloud. But she began to write it.
Scratched into bark. Carved into stone. Etched into frozen windows when the frost set in. Always the same: Kael.
Miriya found them one night and sobbed, not understanding.
But Seraphina understood.
It wasn't just memory. It was prophecy.
She hadn't been reborn by accident.
---
One year later.
It was the eve of the Autumn Blood Moon. The Wilds were quiet, the air heavy with a waiting that made even the birds restless. In the heart of the Vale camp, Seraphina sat by the fire, staring into its flickering heart as though it would speak.
She was seven now, tall for her age, slender as a reed but steady like stone. Her hair had darkened from soft gold to dusk-brown, falling down her back like a river. Her eyes were unchanged—silver like polished moonlight, always too old for her face.
"Come, little flame," Miriya called from their hut. "Time for your tea."
Seraphina didn't move. The fire was showing her something.
A throne cracking down the middle.
Blood seeping into stone.
A man kneeling. A woman rising, crowned in silver flame.
She blinked, and it was gone.
She turned and entered the hut, accepting the cup of warm herbs without protest.
"Did you see something again?" her mother asked gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Seraphina hesitated. "Not something. Someone."
Miriya's hands paused. "The man with the name you never speak?"
Seraphina nodded. "He's closer now. I can feel it."
Her mother exhaled. "Seraphina… he doesn't know who you are."
"No," she agreed. "But he will."
---
Later that night, she stood alone beneath the stars. The other wolves had already shifted and run into the forest to celebrate the rising of the Blood Moon. But she remained still, eyes lifted.
She didn't shift yet. She could feel her wolf inside her, coiled like smoke, but it hadn't broken free. Not yet. Elder Raen said she was late-blooming.
But she knew the truth.
Her wolf wasn't waiting because she was weak. It was waiting for purpose.
A howl echoed in the distance. Not Vale Pack. Not rogue. Something else.
Seraphina's head snapped toward the sound. Her pulse quickened. Her skin prickled.
She turned, walked into the trees without hesitation.
---
Deeper into the forest, she found a pool—perfectly still, surrounded by stones. Moonlight bathed it, casting an eerie silver glow over the surface. As she stepped closer, the reflection shifted.
She didn't see herself.
She saw her—Althea.
Older. Regal. Eyes the same. Hair braided in ceremonial rings. Standing tall in a white gown, the crest of the Luna Queen stitched into the fabric. Her mouth moved.
But there was no sound.
Seraphina leaned closer. "What are you trying to tell me?"
The surface rippled. A whisper curled from the water, smoky and soft:
> "Your wolf is the weapon. But your soul… your soul is the storm."
Seraphina stumbled back. The image shattered. A low hum echoed through the stones.
The glyphs lit again.
Same as the glade.
She reached forward. Her fingertips brushed the light.
And she remembered everything.
The coldness of Kael's betrayal.
The crushing pain of the silver collar.
The final heartbeat on that altar.
The curse she spoke with her dying breath.
"I will return—not to love you again, but to ruin you."
She collapsed to her knees, chest heaving. Her small hands clenched into fists. Not in fear.
In fury.
The bond hadn't broken.
Even now, across kingdoms, she could feel him. Alive. Breathing. Unaware that the soul he condemned had returned to finish what the gods started.
A crimson tear rolled down her cheek and struck the ground.
The pool went dark.
And the Whispering Wilds held its breath.