I stayed by that stream for hours, reading my mother's journal by the light of the moon. Her handwriting was neat and precise, every letter carefully formed. The journal was part training manual, part diary, and part history book.
The Silver Moon Pack, I learned, had been founded over three hundred years ago by a wolf named Selene who claimed to have been blessed directly by the Moon Goddess. Whether that was true or just legend, no one knew. But what was certain was that Selene's descendants carried unusual abilities, enhanced strength even beyond normal Alphas, the ability to manipulate moonlight into physical forms, heightened senses, and accelerated healing.
"The key to controlling Silver Moon abilities," my mother had written, "is understanding that they're tied to emotion and will. Fear will make them unpredictable. Anger will make them destructive. But calm certainty will make them precise and powerful. You must master your emotions to master your gifts."
She included training exercises, meditations to center yourself, physical drills to build strength and control, mental exercises to expand your connection to your wolf. I read them all carefully, committing them to memory.
There were also warnings. "Our power comes at a cost," one entry read. "Using too much too quickly will drain your life force. I've seen warriors burn themselves out in a single battle, aging years in moments. Always leave something in reserve. Always know your limits."
That explained the exhaustion I felt after using my abilities extensively. I wasn't just tired, I was literally burning through my own energy.
The journal also contained names and locations. Wolves my mother had trusted, packs that had been allies, safe houses where Silver Moon members could find shelter. Most of the entries were twenty years old, and I had no way of knowing if any of these people were still alive or still loyal. But it was more than I had before.
One name appeared repeatedly: Ezra Blackwood, Alpha of The Nightshade Pack. My mother had written about him in glowing terms, calling him "honorable beyond measure" and "a wolf who values justice over tradition." The most recent entry about him was from just before I was born.
"Ezra has pledged support if we ever need sanctuary," she had written. "His pack may be small, but his integrity is absolute. If anything happens to us, The Nightshade Pack would be a safe haven for our daughter."
So my mother had planned for the possibility of disaster. She made arrangements to protect me even if she couldn't do it herself. The thought made my chest ache.
I read until the moon was high in the sky, absorbing everything I could. Then I carefully tucked the journal into my bag, it was my most precious possession now, and lay down to sleep.
But sleep didn't come easily. My mind was too full of new information, of faces I never knew but could imagine from my mother's descriptions. I have a history now. I had a legacy. I wasn't just some abandoned omega, I was the daughter of warriors, the last of a powerful bloodline.
It should have made me feel strong. Instead, it made me feel the weight of responsibility. Everyone else in my family had died defending what they believed in. Could I live up to that legacy? Or would I be the one who let the Silver Moon name die completely?
When I finally slept, I dreamed of my mother. She was teaching me to fight, patient and encouraging as I stumbled through the moves. "Again," she said with a smile. "You're stronger than you think. Trust yourself."
I woke at dawn feeling more determined than I had in days. I pulled out the journal and reviewed the training exercises my mother had outlined. If I was going to survive, if I was going to make it to The Nightshade and beyond, I needed to be more than just lucky. I needed to be skilled.
I spent that day practicing. I found a secluded clearing and worked through the physical drills, combat stances, strike combinations, defensive movements. My body knew some of this instinctively from my wolf's battle experience, but making it conscious and controlled was different.
I practiced calling my silver light and shaping it into different forms. With concentration, I could create a barrier that would stop a charging animal. I could form the light into something almost solid, like a weapon or shield. It exhausted me quickly, but each time I did it, I lasted a little longer before needing to rest.
I also worked on shifting. My mother's journal said that skilled Silver Moon wolves could shift partially, just claws, or enhanced senses, or increased strength, without going full wolf. This would let me use my power more subtly and conserve energy. But partial shifting required intense control.
I spent an hour just trying to shift only my hand into wolf form. The first dozen attempts either did nothing or shifted my entire body. But on the thirteenth try, I felt the change localize. My hand elongated, claws extending, fur sprouting on just that one limb while the rest of me stayed human.
I stared at my transformed hand in amazement, then let it shift back. I could do this. I could learn.
By the time night fell and I resumed my journey west, I felt more capable than I ever had. I wasn't helpless prey anymore. I was becoming a warrior.
The journal's map showed a safe house two nights' travel west, marked with my mother's note: "Old friend Marcus. Trustworthy." The name made me wince, Marcus Thorne had destroyed any positive association I had with that name, but I needed to try.
I traveled through the night and the next, covering ground quickly. My enhanced stamina was growing with practice. I could run for hours without stopping now, and I was learning to move through the forest almost silently.