Chapter 3

His hand was warm against mine—warmer than I had expected.

The moment our skin touched, something strange happened. The crescent-shaped birthmark on my neck began to burn. Not painful, exactly, but intense. Like something was awakening beneath my skin.

"What—" I started to say, but he pulled me forward.

"Questions later. Moving now," he said tersely. "They're getting closer."

The howls were indeed louder. I could hear them spread out in formation, systematic, methodical. A hunting party.

We ran through the forest, his hand never leaving mine. When I stumbled over a root, his arm swept around my waist, pulling me against his chest for a heartbeat before setting me upright.

He moved like he knew these paths by heart, and twice I felt him shift his body to shield me from low branches I hadn't seen coming in the darkness. Each time he touched me, that warmth spread deeper, making me feel safer than I had in years.

I stumbled behind him, my torn ceremonial robe catching on everything.

"Where are we going?" I gasped.

"Somewhere safe," he replied without slowing. "Somewhere they won't follow."

After what felt like hours, we reached a clearing I had never seen before. In its center stood an ancient statue of the Moon Goddess, much older than the one at our compound. This one was carved from black stone, worn smooth by centuries of weather.

But as we approached, something impossible happened.

The statue began to glow.

Not the gentle silver light I'd seen once before, but a deep, pulsing radiance that seemed to come from within the stone itself. The light grew brighter as we drew closer.

I stopped dead. "What is that?"

My companion—I still did not know his name—studied the statue with those incredible mismatched eyes. "Recognition," he said simply. "The goddess acknowledges her own."

"Her own what?"

He turned to face me fully. In the statue's light, his features looked sharper, more otherworldly. "Tell me, pup—what do you know about your mother?"

The question caught me off guard. "My mother died when I was eight. Father rarely speaks of her."

"And your stepmother? How long after your mother's death did she arrive?"

I frowned, thinking. "A few months. Father said I needed a woman's care." Something cold settled in my stomach. "Why?"

Instead of answering, he moved closer to the statue. The glow intensified, and suddenly the air around us shimmered. Images began to form in the light—hazy at first, then clearer.

I saw a woman with my face, but older. She stood in this same clearing, her hands raised toward the moon. Plants and flowers bloomed around her feet. Her eyes glowed with silver light.

"Your mother," he said quietly.

The scene shifted. The same woman, but now she looked terrified. She was running through the forest, clutching something to her chest. Behind her, dark shapes pursued—wolves, but wrong somehow. Their eyes burned red.

"She was hiding something," I whispered.

"Someone," he corrected. "She was hiding you."

The images showed more: my mother meeting with a woman in shadows. Money changing hands. A promise made. Then my mother drinking something from a silver cup, her face going slack, her eyes becoming vacant.

"No," I breathed.

The final image was the worst: my mother lying still while the shadowy woman stood over her, something dark flowing from her hands into my mother's body.

The statue's light faded. The clearing fell silent except for my ragged breathing.

"Morgana," I said. The name tasted like poison.

"Your stepmother is no ordinary wolf," he confirmed. "She practices the old magic. The dark kind."

I sank to my knees beside the statue. Everything I thought I knew was crumbling. "She killed my mother."

"You're trembling," He said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. The fabric carried his scent—silver frost and oak, somehow making me feel safe.

"I'm not cold."

"But you're afraid." His hand gently touched my shoulder. "That's normal. Learning the truth is always painful."

That warm touch reminded me of a boy from childhood who had woven me a flower crown, though I couldn't quite recall the details.

"She did more than that." He knelt beside me. "She's been suppressing your true nature for years. That birthmark on your neck? It's not a birthmark."

My hand flew to my throat. The mark was still burning, hotter now.

"It's a binding seal," he continued. "Designed to lock away your power. But it's weakening. That's why you've been feeling different lately."

I thought about the strange sensations I'd been experiencing—the way plants seemed to lean toward me, the dreams of running through forests on four legs that felt more like memory than imagination.

"What power?" I asked, though part of me already knew.

He studied my face carefully. "Your mother wasn't just any wolf, pup. She carried the bloodline of the old druids. Nature magic. The ability to speak with growing things, to heal, to command the very earth itself."

The words hit me like a physical blow. As the truth sank in, I felt his steady presence beside me—an anchor in the storm of revelation. Part of me wanted to lean into that strength, but ten years of betrayal had taught me caution.

The burning sensation spread down my arms. Where my hands touched the ground, tiny flowers began to sprout.

"And Morgana has been stealing it," he said grimly. "Bit by bit, year by year. That's why you can't shift. She's been feeding off your power to fuel her own magic."

Rage filled me—pure, white-hot fury. The flowers around my hands burst into full bloom. The ancient statue's eyes began to glow again.

"She murdered my mother," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "She's been poisoning me for fourteen years. She stood there tonight and comforted me while her own daughter gloated."

"Yes."

"And my father?"

"Blood moon poison," he said. "Subtle. It doesn't kill—it just makes the victim more... suggestible. Easier to control."

I thought of Father's strange behavior over the years, how he'd grown increasingly cold toward me, how he seemed to defer to Morgana in everything.

"How long?" I asked.

"Since shortly after your mother's death."

I stood slowly, power thrumming through my veins. The birthmark on my neck felt like it was dissolving. For the first time in ten years, I felt truly alive.

"You said you know what it's like to be abandoned," I said. "Who abandoned you?"

A shadow crossed his face. "My own family. These eyes"—he gestured to his mismatched gaze—"they call them cursed. Said I'd bring bad luck to the pack. They were happy to see me go."

"But you're not cursed."

"No. The eyes let me see through illusions. Lies. Deceptions." He smiled grimly. "Inconvenient truths that people prefer to keep hidden."

"What's your name?"

"Kieran. Kieran Silverclaw."

I knew that name. The last of a once-powerful bloodline, exiled for being "different."

"Well, Kieran," I said, feeling my power pulse stronger with each heartbeat. "I think it's time someone paid for what they've done."

The howls were getting closer again. But this time, I didn't want to run.

"They're coming for us," Kieran said.

"Good." I looked at him, and he took a step back at whatever he saw in my eyes. "I have some things to say to them."

The first wolf burst into the clearing—one of our patrol guards. He skidded to a halt when he saw the glowing statue, the flowers blooming around my feet.

"Aria?" he said uncertainly.

"Not anymore," I replied.

The flowers at my feet turned to thorns.

"Now I'm something else entirely."