The house had fallen silent.
The laughter and chatter of dinner had dissolved into memory, lingering faintly in the warm scent of roasted chicken and herbs still clinging to the air. Upstairs, the muffled sound of teenage whispers had already dwindled into the rhythm of sleep. Mina's lamp had been turned off, Tasha's giggle faded, and the two girls now rested, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath them.
But downstairs, the night was just beginning.
Dr. Aaron Hayes sat at the dining table, sleeves rolled up, his stethoscope long forgotten in the black leather bag tossed by the door. The amber swirl in his whiskey glass caught the faint glimmer of the chandelier, though he hadn't taken more than a sip. His fingers drummed against the rim with a rhythm that betrayed his calm facade.
Across from him sat Olivia, Tasha's mother, poised and rigid, her arms crossed like armor across her chest. Her dark eyes held none of the laughter she'd worn earlier. Now they were sharp, cutting, and full of questions.
She wasn't here for pleasantries.
"What exactly did you mean by what you said to Tasha earlier?" Olivia's voice was low, clipped. "You told her some dreams aren't just dreams. Why would you plant that in her head?"
Aaron's gaze didn't waver. He finally lifted the glass, let the whiskey burn his throat, and set it down again. "Because it's true," he said evenly. "And you know it."
The muscle in Olivia's jaw tightened. "You shouldn't have said that to her. She doesn't know anything about who she is, what she carries. She's not ready."
Aaron leaned back, folding his arms, the chair creaking softly under his weight. His expression was steady, but his voice carried steel. "Maybe she should be."
"No." Olivia's answer came instantly, sharp as a blade. "Not yet."
A heavy silence fell. Outside, a breeze rattled the branches against the windows, as though the night itself was eavesdropping.
"They turn eighteen in four months," Aaron reminded her quietly, breaking the silence. "Mina's birthday is just three days before Tasha's. You and I both know what that means. We don't have time to keep pretending this is normal."
Olivia's lips pressed into a thin line. Her hand curled around the edge of the table, gripping until her knuckles blanched. "You don't even know if Mina will shift," she murmured. "She's half-human. There's a chance she won't."
Aaron tilted his head. "And if she does?" His words dropped heavy between them. "If she does… then what?"
Olivia's silence was answer enough.
Aaron leaned forward now, voice low but insistent. "That's exactly why we need to prepare them. Both of them. An untrained first shift is dangerous. You've seen it. I've seen it. Children who never knew what they carried until it ripped out of them. Do you want that for either of them?"
Images flickered behind Olivia's eyes she had seen it, years ago. Young wolves who had gone into their first transformation blind, bones snapping, skin tearing, minds shattering under the weight of instincts they didn't understand. It had been messy. Bloody. Sometimes fatal.
Her throat tightened. "And if Tasha never shifts?" she asked softly, almost to herself. "What then? Do we still tell her? Do we burden her with a truth that could destroy her? Or do we let her live in ignorance, safe from all of this?"
Aaron's hand tightened around his glass. He hesitated, and that hesitation was louder than words. "If she doesn't shift, we protect her," he said finally. His voice was calm, but the shadows in his eyes betrayed him. "From everything."
They both knew what that meant.
Knowledge alone could be a death sentence. A human who knew too much about their world didn't live long not with hunters, rival packs, and desperate creatures roaming the fringes of power.
But if she did shift… then everything would change.
Upstairs, a floorboard groaned softly. Both of them froze, listening. Silence followed. The girls hadn't stirred.
Aaron let out a slow breath, but his gaze drifted toward the staircase anyway, his voice lowering as though the walls themselves might betray him. "Mina's always been skeptical," he muttered. "She laughs at ghost stories. She mocks old legends. She doesn't even believe werewolves exist."
Olivia gave a humorless chuckle. "The irony would be funny, if it weren't terrifying."
For the briefest moment, Aaron's lips curved into a smirk. It vanished just as quickly. "She'll fight me on this," he admitted. "She won't believe me. But I'd rather have her angry with me now than watch her break when the change tears through her."
Olivia didn't argue. She understood. She'd always understood.
But her gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. "Tasha…" Her voice faltered. She swallowed. "Tasha doesn't even know she might not be human."
Aaron's eyes darkened, his silence saying more than words could.
The prophecy hung between them like a shadow neither dared name aloud.
A Luna, born in human form. Hidden until she came of age. The one destined to stand beside the last Lycan Alpha and unite the scattered world.
The prophecy hadn't named her. It never did.
But it had always pointed to someone.
And now, there were two.
Two girls.
Two secrets.
Two paths.
But only one could be her.
Olivia's fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass, though she hadn't taken a sip. Her voice was thin, quiet. "If we tell Mina, and Tasha never shifts… what happens then?"
Aaron's gaze lingered on her, unreadable, before he finally answered. "Then we protect her," he repeated softly. "No matter the cost."
The weight of the words hung heavy.
For a long while, silence reigned thick, suffocating.
Then Olivia broke it, her tone shifting, quieter but sharper. "You were close to the last Alpha, weren't you? The Lycan."
Aaron's shoulders stiffened, the glass frozen halfway to his lips. He hadn't heard that name in years.
The Lycan Alpha. The boy born of blood and fire, raised in exile. The last of his kind. The one whose very existence bent the laws of the supernatural world. The one prophecy said would rise again.
Aaron had only seen him once, when the boy was still young. Just a fleeting encounter. But even then… even then he had felt it. That unnatural pull. The weight of something ancient and dangerous curled inside a child's body.
"I knew of him," Aaron said carefully, setting the glass down. "But no one has seen him in years."
Olivia studied him, her eyes narrowing. "Do you believe it? The prophecy?"
Aaron met her gaze without blinking.
"I don't know," he said finally. His voice was quiet, but the conviction in it was sharp. "But if it is real…" His eyes flicked once more toward the staircase, where two girls slept in fragile ignorance.
"…then the one he's meant to find is already here."
A chill ran through Olivia, settling deep in her bones.
They sat in silence after that. The clock ticked steadily on the wall, the night pressing against the windows like a held breath. Upstairs, the girls dreamed, unaware that their lives teetered on the edge of revelation.
Neither adult moved to break the silence again.
Neither dared admit the truth:
They weren't ready for what was coming.
And it was already on its way.