Arielle Pov
They said the moon watched when Arielle was born.
Not glanced at.
Not passed over.
Watched.
It hung low in the sky that night—swollen, luminous, almost too close—casting a silver veil over the Blackridge Pack as though the heavens themselves had leaned down to witness her first breath. The forest stirred beneath its gaze. Wolves lifted their heads one by one, howls breaking the stillness, rolling through the trees like a tide pulled by something ancient and undeniable.
Inside the birthing chamber, Arielle cried.
Her cry was small. Fragile. Humans.
But outside, the pack answered.
The elders exchanged looks heavy with meaning.
They always did.
"She is marked," Elder Maera whispered, her fingers tightening around her staff as she stepped closer to the newborn. Her voice trembled—not with doubt, but reverence. "A Luna child."
The words were spoken softly, yet they struck like a verdict—final, immovable, unquestionable.
Arielle would grow up beneath that weight.
Long before she learned her letters.
Before she understood titles.
Before she knew what a Luna truly was.
From the moment she opened her eyes, her life no longer belonged entirely to her.
Her earliest memories were not of warmth or safety.
They were of stillness.
Of hands guiding her small body into positions she did not yet understand. Of voices—measured, patient, firm—telling her when to sit, when to stand, when to lower her gaze. She learned quickly that obedience was praised, hesitation corrected, curiosity quietly discouraged.
At five years old, Arielle knelt for the first time in the ceremonial hall.
The stone beneath her knees was cold—so cold it seeped through the thin fabric of her dress and into her bones. She wanted to shift her weight, to ease the ache, but she didn't dare. The air smelled of incense and something older—power soaked into the walls over generations.
Wolves twice her size sat in a wide circle around her.
Their eyes followed every movement.
Judging. Measuring.
"A Luna must hold herself with grace," Elder Maera instructed, her voice echoing softly off the stone.
Arielle straightened her back, even as her legs trembled.
"A Luna does not fidget."
She stilled completely, breath shallow, heart racing.
"A Luna listens."
So she did.
No one asked if her knees burned. No one noticed the way her fingers curled tightly into her palms, nails biting into skin. No one saw the fear flicker behind her wide eyes.
They only saw what they wanted to see.
A child learning her place.
From that day forward, Arielle belonged less to herself and more to the idea of what she was meant to become.
While other children ran wild through the forest—laughing freely, shifting clumsily into half-forms, racing one another beneath the trees—Arielle was kept close to the heart of the pack.
Watched.
Corrected.
Polished.
She learned to walk quietly, to speak carefully, to smile when spoken to. Every action was observed, every mistake noted.
"You are different," her mother told her one night, brushing Arielle's long dark hair before bed. The moonlight filtered through the window, casting soft shadows across the room. "You must always remember that."
Arielle looked up at her. "Different how?"
Her mother hesitated.
For just a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Her fingers tightened slightly in Arielle's hair before loosening again.
"Important," she said finally. "And importance comes with responsibility."
Arielle nodded, because nodding made adults smile.
But later, long after her mother had left, she lay awake staring at the ceiling. The word responsibility echoed in her mind, heavy and undefined.
Why did it feel so much like a cage?