"They say the moon blesses. But they forget—it also burns."
The wind howled through the forest like a creature mourning. Elara Vale stood barefoot in the clearing, the hem of her tattered cloak dragging in the wet moss. Her breath came out in shaky puffs, but her spine was straight, her jaw tight. Tonight wasn't just another full moon. Something inside her pulsed. A second heartbeat. A power too old to belong to her.
"Don't look at it," she whispered to herself, staring up anyway.
The moon bled red.
Behind her, the villagers danced and howled, celebrating the Hunt. They called it tradition. Elara called it a curse. Every full moon, one girl was chosen for the sacred offering—sent to the edge of the Shadowlands. To keep the Alphas calm, they said. To honor the peace.
But peace didn't come from blood. It came from fear.
And tonight, the blood was hers.
A cold hand gripped her wrist. "It's time," said Elder Mirra, eyes sharp like iron.
Elara didn't fight. Not yet. The Mark beneath her collarbone burned, unseen but alive. The closer she got to the forest, the hotter it grew.
The Shadowlands waited.
So did fate.
And so did the three Alphas who would either claim her… or kill her.