The night the Moonbound Hunt began, the moon bled silver across the forest of Red Moon Park, and every werewolf clan answered its call.
For centuries, the Moonbound Hunt had been sacred law. A proving ground. A reckoning.
On this night, you did not choose mercy—you chose to hunt, or to be hunted.
Saphira of the Silverlight Pack stood at the edge of the clearing, her spine straight, her chin lifted, her heart anything but steady.
She was a princess—daughter of Alpha Roderick, ruler of Silverlight—but titles meant nothing here. Not tonight. Not under the moon.
Around her, wolves gathered in shifting clusters: warriors scarred by past Hunts, eager initiates hungry for glory, and alphas whose gazes carried old grudges. Among them stood members of the Redmoon Pack, their crimson insignia catching the moonlight like fresh blood.
Her father's enemies.
Her mother's ghosts.
Saphira felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders—the whispers.
Fragile.
Healer's blood.
She won't last the night.
They said it without saying it. They always did.
Unlike the others, Saphira did not radiate brute strength. Her power did not roar beneath her skin—it whispered. Healing magic, rare and forbidden in its own way, slept quietly in her veins. A gift passed down from her mother, Elara, whose gentle hands once stitched life back into broken bodies.
And whose death, Saphira had been taught, was the fault of the Redmoon Pack.
Of their Alpha.
She clenched her fists.
No one knew what she was.
Not the pack.
Not the council.
Not even her father.
Elara had made her promise.
Hide it. The world does not protect healers—it uses them.
So Saphira learned to survive without claws sharpened by bloodlust. She trained harder. Stayed quieter. Learned when to disappear.
Tonight, disappearing was not an option.
The Hunt began with the howl.
A deep, echoing call that split the forest open and sent adrenaline tearing through the clearing. Wolves shifted. Bones cracked. Eyes burned gold.
Saphira ran.
Branches lashed at her arms as she plunged into the forest, breath sharp, pulse louder than her footsteps. She could feel it—the shift in the air. The moment the others realized.
The princess was prey.
She heard them behind her—too many, too fast. Laughter threaded through growls. This was not about honor anymore. It was about humiliation. About reminding the Alpha's daughter that softness had no place among wolves.
Her foot caught on a root.
She fell.
The forest went silent for half a heartbeat.
Then they emerged.
Shadows with teeth. Eyes glowing with hunger.
Saphira pushed herself back, hands trembling, her secret screaming beneath her skin. She could heal herself. Could blind them with light. Could—
A snarl tore through the clearing, sharp and commanding.
Not theirs.
The air shifted. Power rolled in like thunder before a storm.
A massive wolf stepped between her and the pack—fur dark as night, eyes burning a deep, dangerous red. The mark of the Redmoon Alpha glowed faintly along his flank.
Gasps rippled through the trees.
"Stand down," a voice commanded—low, lethal, absolute.
The wolf shifted.
Where he stood now was a man crowned by moonlight, broad-shouldered, scarred, unmistakable.
Alpha Kael of the Redmoon Pack.
The name struck Saphira like a blade.
Him.