I wake in agony. A white‑hot flame wraps around my left wrist and yanks me from the mists of sleep before the first light of morning. My eyes spring open to bleak dim — too early for the chores, too late for the dreams. And the pain staples me down, like iron chains. I grit my fists into the cot's edges "knuckles of the white," and let myself catch on fire felt from the inside.
My breath catches in my throat when I finally force my shaking hand into view. On my palm blazes a broken crescent of silvery light, jagged veins of moon‑white magic spreading away. Each beat of its own eerie light sends a new lance of pain searing up my arm, doubling me over in its ferocity. I gasp and scramble to a sitting position, hair snaking across the coarse linen sheets.
"Maris!" Rowan's voice pierces the haze. My cousin and pack healer crashes into the room, his night-dark eyes wide. He is always calm, the Grove's safe port no matter how wild the storm, but now the lines around his mouth go taut. He sees the talisman immediately: its split facets tumbling and refracting the light of the lantern, throwing capering slices of light along the walls.
"What in—?" Rowan springs, but I jerk my hand away. "Don't touch it," I rasp, my teeth chattering despite the heat. "I can't … I don't know what that is."
Rowan freezes, hurt surprise in his eyes. Then he squares his shoulders and goes low. "Show me." His right hand is hanging over mine, but not touching it. "Let me see what the form is that we're facing."
I stretch and squeeze, and the crescent appears to breathe —a coruscating inhale each, a pained exhale. "It came out last night," I whisper. "When the moon went behind the clouds. I just thought it was a bad dream … until I woke up with the pain.
A low hum pulsates through the room. Rowan's eyes snap to the window because pale streaks of dawn bleed into the charcoal sky. "The Moonshade Council must know…" His gaze meets mine. It is very steady and serious. "… this … this is not natural". Panic spikes in my chest. The Council of the Elders, their word is law. If they determine that I'm a danger, I'll be bound and sealed in stone forever. Or worse. "Not yet." I gasp, and lunge off the bed. "I need time to understand this." He protests, but I throw myself into my boots and my cloak anyway. Every step bruises the raw flesh of my palm, and yet I don't peek. I must see this with my own eyes, somewhere secret. I am greeted by the dawn's chill at the garden gate Lavender and silver leaf sway in perfect rows beyond the small stone wall – my refuge. The scent calms me, and the pulsing of the talisman's glow dies down, if only momentarily in response. But the instant I raise my hand above the wall, the cold radiance returns, and, like a deadly flower, the pain blooms and I wobble forward, heart-pounding. My palm slams against the image, and I scream as if I can hush the song with my touch. Morning is just half-awake. The neighbor's little home swallows its last light of a lantern. A songbird warbles from the sentinel oak and all is as it should be. Until a far-off wolf's howl shatters the peace. The spine-chilling cry, ripe with desire and hopelessness, rolls under my ears. I drop the basket of nettles I picked, and the green stems scatter across the cobbled path. Is caught. My breath catches. A second howl follows—the Stormfang pack. My pulse jolts. Warriors with blood-red banners tighten them with dawn for war.
I whirl as thunder drums behind me. The torch-filleted circle is the grove's brink And within is a silent troop of armèd men. Their faces are totally covered in fanged helmets, and leather and steel glint in the darkness. At their head is a commander with broad shoulders, torch held aloft. His coat of arms shows the twin‑wolf symbol of the Stormfangs, its silver jaws perpetually snarling in threat.
My throat tightens. I'd had whispers: Draven Storm—disgraced Alpha charged with treason, guarded by a life-leeching curse if he ever took his destined mate—was amassing a following. But I'd never actually thought he'd come around. To Moonshade Grove. To me.
A flicker of panic ripples through the villagers. I spot Rowan, staff gripped in his hand, eyes darting between the attackers and me. The hardened old man that is Eider Sylis strides forward and orders the Council to rise.
"What authority do you dare violate the Moonshade's territory?" Sylis demands, voice echoing.
The torchbeam of the Stormfang commander skates across his ice-steel eyes. He advances, cool icicle tones spilling from his mouth. "We come for the Moonbearer."
My heart seizes. The word lands like a blade. Moonbearer—fated mate—Draven's preordained. I swivel towards the commander, agony muddying my sight. "I—" My voice cracks. "You seek… me?"
A hush falls. Women grasp their children; men change hands with spears. Maris!" Rowan hisses at my right side, "Get back!"
But my feet remain rooted. Agony rips through me, but the talisman's light brightens, as though it can feel my terror. The crescent disintegrates into flames, and the grove turns ghostly silver.
The commander nods once. "Come forward, Moonbearer. Don't make us come for you by force."
I swallow, chest burning. What choice do I have? I take a step forward and I fulfil the prophecy. If I hide, they'll rage through the grove and set everything alight. I raise my hand and my hand is shaking as I do—the broken moonshard glowing right beneath my skin.
A gasp ripples through the crowd. Rowan starts to lunge, but I put my hand up. "Wait." It is a small voice but it travels in the cold air. "I've no idea what this means."
The commander's mask flickers in the torchlight. "You will learn." He beckons, and fifty Stormfang hunters spread out as they move in, encircling. Their boots grind on stone.
Elder Sylis grips his staff. "We will not surrender any—"
"Elder," the commander breaks in, his voice low. Only the Maiden licked by the light of the broken moon! No harm to your pack so long as you listen."
Peering up from behind Sylis, I meet Rowan's eyes—they plead. He mouths two more words: "Be careful."
A spasm of new energy jabs through my hand, folding me into myself. My mouth opens and nothing emerges. Sweat beads on my brow. Torchlight veers the commander's torch, hunters, he says and they turn as if forming a lip around prey.
I hold metal in my mouth as the talisman's motes float upward, dissipating into the cold air. My vision tunnels to a thin slit of concentration: the broken moon, quaking, poised.
And then the wounded forest wolf—the one that has brought me so far—rushes into the clearing with a roar that shakes the sentinel oak. Its fur is mottled gray, ribs visible, eyes glowing with pain. It halts at the edge of the grove, flaring its nostrils. It howls once more: a defiant wail, a cry for mercy.
The Stormfang hunters freeze. The commander's torch lowers. It pounds, purpose and pain coursing together. The shard of the moon in my palm vibrates in response to the howl of the wolf. I understand, both in a combination of terror and awe, that I've bound myself to him—and through him, to Draven Storm.
Tumultuous silence erupts between packs and warriors. The light grows around me, and the cants of discarded herbs at my feet glitter with dew. I clench a fist around the talisman, force myself to keep my feet.
The officer steps up, speaking quietly enough it's a whisper to me: "The bond is closed. It's time, Moonbearer."
My chest tightens. I suck in air, willing myself not to flinch at the pain that screams beneath my wrist. My world has already shattered so it doesn't matter if I walk the shards.
I lift my blood‑paled hand to the commander, to the wolf, to whatever fate there may be. My eyesight begins to blur and then dawn turns to silver as everything goes black.