Blood Moon Vow

Blood Moon’s Vow

The forest lay drowned in the shadows, silver leaves trembling under the breath of night. A red moon—swollen,  bloodshot and unrelenting hung heavy over the treeline. It’s light did not soothe. It burned.

Some said it was the gaze of the gods, a reminder of sins committed long before memory. Others swore it was the eye of the curse itself, watching, waiting, hungering.

On such nights, even the bravest dared not linger between the trees. Wolves moved differently when the blood moon rose, their eyes fever-bright, their howls too much like mourning.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The Lycaon Pack

From the mountain ridge, a chorus erupted—a  dozen voices braided into a single, mournful howl. They carried down the valley, through the hush of pines and scattered glow of fireflies. At the head of them stood Kael, Alpha of the Lycaon Pack, his fur silver as frost, his body towering, scars carved deep across his flank.

He looked every inch the creature the humans feared: predator, beast, curse incarnate. Yet his eyes—sharp amber flecked with gold held  something more than savagery. They held command. Pain. And the weight of history.

He stood at the edge of the cliff while his pack fanned out behind him. His voice, guttural but steady cut through the air.

“They watch us from their fires” he said, the words rolling like thunder in his chest. “They spit their fear into the wind and call it justice. But we… we were wolves before their bloodlines even learned the meaning of fire. This land was ours.”

The pack rumbled approval, a restless growl moving through them.

A younger wolf, Ryn, stepped forward. His fur dark as ash, his eyes restless.

“And now it is theirs. Chains, fire, silver. They drive us into the shadows. Alpha, when will we rise?”

Kael’s  gaze drifted back to the moon. It’s crimson light sharpened the angles of his scars.

“We will rise when the curse allows it. Until then, we endure.”

The pack quieted. But in their silence lay unease.

The Veyra Clan

Down in the valley, flamed crackled in a great circle devouring wood stacked high. Villagers gathered, their faces pained with white ash, their clothes threaded with beads of bone. They chanted as one, the rhythm of drums hammering the earth.

At the center stood Elder Vyra, a matriarch of the Veyra Clan, her hair a long river of white, her staff etched with symbols older than stone.

She raised her hands, and the chanting stopped. The fire flared taller, embers drifting like blood-red snow.

“Hear me, children of the Healers” she intoned. Her voice rasped with age, but every syllable carried weight. “Tonight, the blood moon rises to remind us, Wolves are not kin. They are the shadow that stalks the flame. They are hunger given teeth.”

Murmurs rippled through the villagers. Mothers clutched children closer. Men tightened grips on silver-forged spears.

Elder Vyra’s eyes swept over them, fierce and unyielding.

“Long ago, the gods cursed us both. Wolves to the night, and healers to solitude. Never shall wolf and healer share one heart. For if they do, the curse shall break… or the world shall burn.”

The words echoes, ancient and cruel.

A younger healer stood near the edge of the crowd, her hood shadowing her face. Elara. Unlike the others, she did not cheer or bow her head in agreement. Her eyes, a startling green in the firelight lingered not on the Elder but on the moon above.

She felt its pull in her chest, heavy, aching, like a secret waiting to be named.

Among the villagers stood Dorian, tall, broad-shouldered, his jaw set in stone. His gaze never left Elara. He had known her since childhood, since the days she wandered barefoot along the riverbanks, herbs bundles in her skirts.

He knew the way her laugh once sounded ---- bright, untamed. He knew the way her smile softened even the most stubborn of men. He also knew that smile no longer belonged to him, though he had never truly possessed it.

When her gaze lifted to the moon, when her lips parted as though it whispered secrets to her alone, Dorian’s gut tightened.

“Elara,” he murmured under his breath, the name heavy with longing.

Beside him, a fellow warrior nudged him. “Your eyes stray again. Careful, Dorain. The Elder watches all.”

Dorian forced his face to harden. “I watch only as a protector of this clan.”

But inside, he was burning.

The Prophecy

The fire roared higher, and Elder Vyra struck her staff into the ground. Sparks spiralled upward, scattering into the night.

“Remember the prophecy,” she cried, her voice sharp as iron. “Remember why we cannot trust the beast of the mountain. A wolf’s heart and a healer’s heart shall never beat as one. Should they try, ruin will follow. The blood moon will not forgive.”

The villagers repeated the words, voices weaving like a curse itself.

But not everyone repeated.

Elara’s lips stayed closed. She stared into the flamed and in them she saw shaped: the glint of amber eyes, the brush of fur, a hand reaching toward hers. She did not understand why such images filled her mind, but her pulse raced with them.

Above her, the blood moon seemed to pulse in answer.

Back on the ridge, Kael lifted his head. His sharp gaze cut through forest and fog, through distance itself. For a heartbeat, his eyes locked with hers across the valley though no mortal should have seen so far.

Elara’s breath hitched. Her heart thudded, a warning or a promise, she could not tell.

Kael frowned, unsettled. The healer’s green eyes lingered with him long after the connection broke.

Something shifted in the air—subtle, but undeniable.

As the fire died to embers, the villagers returned to their homes, muttering prayers to ward off wolves. The pack melted back into shadow, the sound of their paws fading into silence.

Yet two souls remained restless.

Elara lingered by the dying flames, pressing her hand against her chest as though she could steady the storm inside.

Kael stood on the ridge, refusing to retreat with the others, his amber eyes fixed on the valley below.

Neither spoke the word that hummed within them. Neither admitted the pull of the prophecy beginning to weave its snare.

The blood moon burned above, merciless and watchful.

And somewhere in the silence, the gods laughed.

Elara lingered after the villagers drifted away, the fire crackling down to glowing embers. The warmth of it painted her cheeks in shades of red and gold, but she hardly felt it. Her gaze was still turned toward the forest, the ridges black against the crimson-tinged sky.

Something had stirred in her. Their fleeting meeting of eyes—real or imagined—had unsettled her bones. A wolf’s eyes, surely. But why had they not frightened her? Why had they seemed…familiar?

She rubbed her arms as a shiver crept through her. It was only the firelight. Only shadows tricking me. Nothing more.

“Elara.”

She turned, startled. Dorian stood a few paces away, his broad frame outlines against the dying glow. His hair, dark and thick, fell untamed across his brow, and the silver clasp at his shoulder marked him as one of the clan’s warriors. He held a spear loosely in one hand, though the point gleamed sharp as his stare.

“You should not linger” he said, stepping closer. His voice was deep, edged with the kind of authority he wore like armour.  “The fire is no longer a shield. Wolves prowl when the flames burn low.”

Elara forced a small smile. “Wolves prowl whether fires are strong or weak. They do not wait for embers, Dorian.”

He frowned, his jaw tightening. “Still. It is dangerous. You know this.”

Her gaze softened. She knew he meant well. Dorian had always meant well—since  childhood, when he shadowed her on herb-gathering walks, since youth, when he volunteered to guard her hut when sickness swept the clan. He had always been her protector, her anchor.

And yet, when he looked at her now, she saw more than protection. His eyes carried the weight of a man who wanted something he had never dared to ask aloud.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said firmly, as though giving her no choice.

She hesitated, glancing once more toward the forest, then nodded. “Very well.”

The path home wound between tall pines, their needles whispering overhead. Crickets sang, and the night breeze carried the faint scent of rain. Dorian walked at her side, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

“You were quiet tonight,” he said after a while. “During the Elder’s words.”

Elara pulled her cloak tighter. “I was listening.”

“Listening,” he repeated, studying her. “But not agreeing.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Must one chant to prove belief?”

He slowed, frowning. “Elara…You should not question the Elder’s words. Not where others might see. People talk. Already some think you…different.”

The word stung. Different. She had always known it. While the other healers followed rules with unflinching obedience, Elara lingered at the edge of traditions, restless. She asked questions others dared not. She felt things she could not name when the blood moon rose.

And tonight, when her gaze had locked with the eyes of a wolf across the valley, something inside her had answered.

“I am who I am,” she said softly.

Dorian’s step faltered. He turned toward her, his expression shadowed, conflicted. “And who is that, Elara? Who are you when you look at the moon like it speaks to you? When you stand apart from your own people?”

She opened her mouth, but no answer came. Not one that would soothe him.

His hand brushed hers, tentative but deliberate. “I know you, Elara. I have always known you. You belong here, with us. With me.”

Her breath caught. There it was—what had always lingered unspoken between them.

She pulled her hand gently away, not cruelly, but enough. “Dorian…”

His jaw tightened. “You need not say it. I already know.” He turned forward again, his shoulders stiff, his steps harder than before.

Elara’s chest ached. She wished she could give him the answer he wanted, the certainty he deserved. But her heart remained silent in his presence, a stillness where there should have been fire.

High above, on the ridge, Kael had not yet moved. His pack had retreated into the forest’s depth, but he lingered, watching. He had seen the girl by the fire. He had felt her gaze pierce the distance. And now, even from far away, he could see her walking the path the warrior at the side.

The sight unsettled him. Humans were not meant to hold his attention. Yet something in the healer’s eyes had stirred memory, or perhaps destiny itself.

“Alpha.”

Kael’s ear flicked at the voice behind him. Ryn, the younger wolf, had returned, his form shifting as he approached—bones cracking, muscles reshaping until a lean man with dark hair and sharp features emerged, clothed only in shadow.

“You stay when the pack has gone,” Ryn said. “You watch the humans. Dangerous habit, Alpha.”

Kael’s gaze did not leave the valley. “The healer. Did you see her?”

Ryn smirked faintly. “The one who stared at you as though she knew your name? Yes. I saw. Curious little thing.”

Kael growled low in his throat, though it was not a warning, more a restless sound. “She is… different.”

“Different is dangerous,” Ryn reminded him. “You of all should know. The prophecy warns us. Healer and wolf, one heart, one ruin.”

The words grated, for Kael had heard them a thousand times. The curse defined them, bound them, doomed them. And yet—when the girl’s eyes had met his, he had not flet ruin. He had felt recognition.

“Perhaps prophecies are chains,” Kael murmured. “And chains were meant to be broken.”

Ryn’s eyes widened. “Careful, Alpha. Such thoughts invite destruction.”

Kael finally tore his gaze from the valley. “Destruction follows us regardless.” He shifted, his form rippling back into the powerful beast of silver fur and sinew. “Come. The night is not yet over.”

They vanished into the tress, shadows swallowed by shadows.

By the time Elara reached her hut, the moon had dipped lower, though its red glow still stained the world. She paused at her doorway, her hand resting on the wood. Behind her, Dorian lingered, silent.

“Thank you for walking me,” she said gently.

He inclined his head, his eyes unreadable in the dark. “Always.”

She stepped inside and closed the door, leaning against it, her breath shuddering out.

The hut was quiet, filled with the scent of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, their shadows swaying in the moonlight. She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling the wild rhythm of her heart.

What had happened tonight was impossible. A wolf could not have looked into her soul. A healer could not have felt that pull. And yet…she had.

The curse whispered through the generations, a warning wrapped in terror. But perhaps warnings were not only prisons. Perhaps they were invitations to defy.

Elara closed her eyes, and the memory of amber eyes burned behind her lids. She should have been afraid. Instead, she felt alive.

Outside, the blood moon sank slowly toward the horizon, its crimson fading. But its mark remained—etched in her bones, and in the heart of the Alpha who had looked back at her.

The night ended, but the vow of the blood moon had only just begun.

Elara woke to the sound of pounding footsteps on the wooden floor above. The healer’s lodge smelled of herbs, smoke, and morning dew carried in from the open shutters. She sat up, her braid slipping loose over her shoulder, and listened. Her mother’s voice—sharp, commanding—rang through the air, scolding an apprentice for fumbling a mortar.

Serenya had been awake before dawn, as always. Elara rubbed sleep from her eyes and wondered if her mother had ever known rest. The lodge was more a fortress than a home: shelves lined with jars of powdered roots, dried flowers hanging from the rafters, polished silver tools gleaming like tiny moons. It was here that the wounds of the clan were tended, but it was also here that the elders whispered of loyalty and betrayal.

Elara dressed quickly, binding her long dark hair and slipping on the healer’s white tunic. Before stepping into the main chamber, she lingered at the small wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Inside lay a handful