Ayana woke to pain. Not the sharp kind, but the deep, lingering ache of a body that had been stretched beyond its limits. Her muscles burned, and her palms were blistered. She hadn't even started training yet—Kael had simply told her to run.
For hours.
Through the forest, up slopes, across rivers that numbed her feet. He said nothing during it. Just watched. Measured. Judged.
Now she lay in the corner of the hut, her arms tucked under her head, trying not to curse out loud. The early morning sun filtered through the trees, golden and too peaceful for what she was feeling.
Kael was already outside when she stepped out, sweat staining the collar of his shirt. He didn't look up as he tossed a wooden staff at her feet.
"Pick it up."
She frowned. "No good morning? No coffee?"
He gave her a blank stare. "You're not here to be comfortable. You're here to survive."
Ayana swallowed her irritation, bent down, and lifted the staff. It was heavier than she expected.
"What is this? Witchcraft 101?"
Kael moved toward her slowly, staff in hand. "Combat training. Defensive forms. If you want to live, you'll need to do more than spark lightning from your palm."
Ayana tried to mimic his stance. Her grip was awkward. Her feet felt wrong.
"Relax your shoulders," he said, circling her. "Keep your stance wide. Center your balance. You're not dancing. You're preparing for war."
He struck.
She barely blocked it, the impact jarring her arms.
"What the hell?!" she snapped.
He didn't pause. Another strike—this time faster. She stumbled back, barely parrying.
"This is real," Kael said, tone flat. "The creatures coming for you won't wait for you to warm up. They won't go easy because you're new."
She gritted her teeth. "I *know* that."
He moved again. She blocked—this time with more confidence.
A flicker of approval crossed his face. "Better."
They trained for hours. Staffs. Footwork. Evasion. When she dropped the weapon in exhaustion, Kael handed it back to her. When she missed a block, he made her start the form again.
Ayana didn't realize she was crying until the tears slipped down her cheek.
Kael noticed, but said nothing.
Instead, he lowered his staff. "You hate me now."
She wiped her face with the back of her arm. "I don't hate you. I hate this. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to be some chosen bloodline sacrifice or… or whatever this is."
He stepped closer, quieter now. "Neither did I."
Ayana looked up. His voice had softened—not in pity, but in understanding.
"You were cursed too?" she asked.
Kael nodded. "I was born into it. The alpha line. My father was the last bearer before me. He was... not a kind man."
There was pain in his voice, old and buried.
"What happened to him?"
"I killed him."
The words hit her like a slap.
Kael didn't look away. "He lost control. The wolf consumed him. He became what we swore to protect the world from."
Ayana stared. "And you stopped him?"
"I didn't have a choice."
She sat down on the grass, her legs trembling from fatigue. "How do you live with that?"
Kael looked at the sky for a long moment. "You don't. You carry it."
A silence settled between them—thick, heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Then:
"Come on," he said. "Elira wants to see you."
***
The seer's cabin was shadowed by tall trees. Vines clung to the wooden walls. Inside, the air smelled like crushed herbs and burning cedar.
Elira sat cross-legged on a mat, surrounded by old scrolls and books. She didn't lift her head as Ayana entered.
"You feel it, don't you?" she said.
Ayana frowned. "Feel what?"
"The pulse beneath your skin. The hunger. The shift."
Ayana swallowed. She had felt something—last night, when she'd touched the pendant. A kind of pull, like something ancient was trying to speak through her bones.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Your wolf," Elira said. "It sleeps now. But not for long."
Ayana went still. "I'm going to… change?"
"Eventually," Elira said. "If you live long enough. And if you don't lose control first."
Fear curled in her gut. "What happens if I do?"
Elira looked up, her eyes stormy with vision. "You won't be you anymore."
Ayana's throat tightened. "Then what's the point of all this? Why train me if I'll just turn into a monster?"
Elira reached for her hand. Her touch was warm, grounding. "Because your blood doesn't have to be your prison. It can be your weapon."
She leaned closer. "But you must choose. Every day. To fight it. To hold on to who you are."
Ayana looked down at their joined hands. Her skin was trembling.
"I don't know who I am," she whispered.
Elira smiled gently. "Then it's time you find out."
She rose and walked to a chest in the corner. From it, she pulled a bundle wrapped in faded red cloth. Inside was a journal—leather-bound, frayed at the edges.
"Your mother's," she said. "She left it with me before she died."
Ayana stared. Her fingers shook as she took it. The first page held a single line, in beautiful, looping script:
*For my moonbound daughter—may you finish what I could not.*
Her vision blurred with tears.
Elira said nothing more.
And Ayana read.
For hours. Through sunset and into the night. She read about a young woman named Selene Delacroix—brave, fierce, and terrified of the beast within her. She read about love lost, about sacrifice, about the day Selene gave birth and promised to end the curse... one way or another.
Ayana closed the journal only when her hands began to cramp.
Outside, the wolves howled.
And inside her chest, something stirred.