The night was a tapestry of deep indigo and silver, the moon splintering light on the old woodland around our tent.
Perched at the brink of the clearing, the Crescent Mark on my arm pulsed like a pulse. Tonight, I felt the weight of years pushing on my skin—an echo of voices long hushed now rousing in the chilly air. At first the murmurs were gentle, like the rustling of leaves, but they gradually grew into a chorus of old memories and predictions.
I listened closing my eyes. In that silence, my thoughts turned to pictures of a history I had only read about in old scrolls and heard in subdued stories.
Towering wolves with silver fur stared with knowledge and grief in their eyes. From millennia before, I heard the voice of a great Alpha, a king whose sacrifice had bonded our Crescent Bloodline together. The voice was a sharp reminder of the cost our heritage commanded, not a kind one either.
