The Rising

They say the Moon was the first to bleed.

Long before time had a name and stars knew their place, She tore herself in two....one half became light; soft and silver, the mother of tides and dreams.

While the other, shadow, hidden, and wild, beating with a hunger that could never be caged.

From Her breath came the five.

The wolves, carved from bone and instinct, were Her voice, loyal, feral and bound to the tides of Her will.

The fae, born of Her laughter and beauty, they danced between realms, timeless, cruel, and bound by truth sharper than any blade.

The vaelth, children of dusk and death. Vampyric wraith, not undead, but cursed descendants of sun hating sorcerers, who whispered secrets the living feared.

The dragons, Her fire, Her fury, forgotten now by many, but never by the earth, shape shifters and fire breathers who dwelled in the royal courts of the mountains.

And the shadowborn… Her mistake, Her silence. Creatures never meant to rise, a forgotten race said to be extinct, the masters of dark magic and time.

For many centuries, the Five lived in a fragile orbit, circling war, and tasting peace.

And above them all, the Moon watched.

______________

We are a land ruled by blood and oaths.

To shift is to be chosen.

To be chosen is to be seen.

And to be unseen by the Moon is to be cursed.

Every bloodline bows to legacy, packs, Courts, and Clans bound by ritual, rank, and ruin.

The wolves, especially, they revere the Moon not just as their creator, but as their judge.

She marks Her chosen with a shift on their eighteenth year, a bone cracking, and soul splitting experience.....and then the wolf clawing through skin in sacred agony.

But not all are chosen, and not all remain loyal.

In the North, where frost grips the mountains, the Crescent Fang Pack reigns. Ruthless and unyielding, where warriors are raised on war chants and silver blades. They train their young for the Offering Day, the moment they either shift…or are cast out.

Because a wolf who cannot shift is not a wolf. They are shame, dead weight and better forgotten.

And in the shadows beyond the veil of mountains, whispers stir. An old power sleeps with one eye open, the Moon grows quiet and the long buried begins to awaken.

***********************************

SYLARI

“Push, my Lady, just one more, she’s almost here!”

Darkness was the first thing I knew.

It wasn’t cold or frightening. It was steady, and warm, like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine and I floated in it calmly.

Then everything shattered, and the light tore through like a scream without sound. I was being pulled, and ripped from the warmth.

My fingers folded slightly, reaching for anything to hold on to, I didn’t want to leave, but there was no choice, then I felt a pressure, a push, and suddenly....

Air? It felt harsh, loud and wet.

I blinked for the first time, so many shapes, blurs and shadows with faces. So many voices, the rough and warm hands, blood, and cloth, I felt it all but didn’t cry.

“She’s not breathing right,” someone muttered.

“No, she is,” another said quickly, “She just… she hasn’t cried.”

“Newborns cry.”

They were waiting for me to cry, but I didn’t and I don't know why.

The room froze like I’d broken some rule. One of the midwives, the younger one with trembling hands held me at arm’s length, her eyes were wide with uncertainty.

“She’s not crying,” she said quietly, “Shouldn’t she be crying?”

“Well she’s breathing,” the elder midwife snapped.

“Wrap her, quickly. The Luna needs rest.”

But the Luna, my mother....wasn’t resting.

“…No.”

The word came out hollow and empty.

“No… no no no....she was just....”

“The Luna’s gone.”

A bowl clattered to the floor and someone gasped, while the others began muttering words that sounded like a prayer.

“She didn’t even hold her child,” the younger one whispered.

“She didn’t even open her eyes,” the elder said,

“She’s gone.”

Then the room turned to me, small, swaddled and still.

“She never cried,” someone said again.

“Her mother died the moment she came out.”

“She’s cursed.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Look at her eyes.”

More silence.

“She opened them?”

“They’re silver.”

A beat passed.

“Like the moon.”

“That’s not normal.”

“It’s not just silver, they glow unnaturally.”

“Cursed,” the younger midwife whispered.

“Don’t say that in this room,” another scolded.

“We’re still in the Luna’s presence.”

“She’s dead!” someone snapped. “And it’s this baby that took her!”

I blinked.

“She doesn’t even blink like a baby should.”

“I’m not touching her again.”

“She feels cold, like she’s already dead.”

“Stop talking like that!”

Someone pulled the cloth over my head, wrapping me tighter.

Then a guard was summoned his armor clanked as he entered the chamber, and his expression looked confused.

“What's the news?”

“The Luna… didn’t make it,” the elder midwife said. “And the child…”

“She’s a girl,” the younger added bitterly, “And something isn’t right with her.”

“A girl?” the guard echoed, the silence in the room grew heavy.

Born without a cry and with silver eyes. Born as a girl in a world where the Crescent Fang pack expected only one thing from a firstborn....power.

“She must be hidden,” the elder midwife said.

“Before the Alpha arrives.”

“I will send word,” the guard muttered. “But he won’t take it kindly.”

I was passed from hand to hand like I was fragile....no, like I was havoc itself. No one wanted to hold me for too long as if my silence might seep into their bones.

They wrapped me tighter, covering even my face.

I didn’t move or fuss and that disturbed them more.

“She doesn’t act like a baby,” someone whispered.

“She doesn’t act like she belongs to us,” another said.

“She doesn’t even smell like Crescent Fang.”

That part struck differently, because I heard and understood them and deep down, a voice inside me whispered: "They’re right".

The door creaked open again and this time a higher-ranking wolf entered, Beta Ronen. His scent was sharp, and filled with authority and the bitterness of grief.

“She’s dead?” he asked the room, the midwives nodded.

He didn’t ask how.

His gaze turned to me and I could feel his discomfort even through the linen.

“She was supposed to birth the Alpha’s heir,” he said.

“She did,” another lady said.

“No.” His voice was cold, “She birthed a girl.” And in Crescent Fang, a girl was no heir, a girl was a disappointment, even worse one born silent, with silver eyes and cursed luck?

An abomination.

“Take her to the eastern wing,” he said. “Keep her away from the pack, when the Alpha returns, he will decide what to do with her.”

"What if she cries then?”

“She won’t,” someone said, bitterly.

“She hasn’t since she got here.”

And again, the silence returned.

That thick, choking kind of silence that fills your ears and leaves everything feeling….wrong.

I was passed off as if I didn’t belong to any of them.

Like I wasn’t Crescent Fang's blood and just like that, I was carried away.

Not as a princess or as a blessing, but a burden, wrapped in linen and silence, with the taste of rejection thick in the air.

I was named before I was ever held.

'Cursed