The White Wolf's Secret: His Unexpected Luna

Lyra's POV:

The flame of the oil lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls of the cabin. A cold draft snaked through a gap in the logs, making the tiny light shudder as if it, too, was taking its last breath. It illuminated the face of the man on the cot, Silas Hawthorne. His skin was as pale as parchment, stretched thin over his bones.

My small hands, steady and sure, dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water. I wrung it out and gently wiped his forehead. There were no tears in my silver eyes. My focus was absolute. This was a process, a transition I understood with a clarity that belied my three years of life.

A rattling cough shook Silas’s frail body. A wisp of black vapor escaped his lips, and my nose wrinkled. The scent of soul-decay. My ancient spirit recognized it instantly. It was the smell of a thread being cut from the great tapestry.

His hand, as dry and brittle as an old branch, shot out and gripped mine. It was cold. "The time has come, Little Moon," he rasped, his voice a faint scratch of sound.

From beneath his pillow, he pulled a flat, black stone etched with swirling runes. A single groove, a blood channel, was carved down its center. "Take this, Lyra."

With the last of his strength, he dragged a fingernail across his own thumb, drawing a single, dark drop of blood. He guided it into the stone’s channel. For a moment, the runes glowed with a faint red light, then went dark again.

"Go down the mountain," he instructed, his breath catching. "Go to the territory of the Blackwood Pack. Find your kinsman, Ryker Blackwood."

I listened, committing the name to memory.

A deep worry etched itself into Silas’s features. "He... he may not be living well. But his heart is good. Give this to him. He will understand."

His voice faded to a near-whisper. "Tell him... I am sorry. And... make sure... make sure you feed her."

I gave a solemn nod, my small fingers closing around the cold stone.

Silas's breathing grew shallow. He looked at me, his gaze filled with a love and sorrow that transcended words. "Sing, child. Send me home."

I climbed onto the edge of the cot, my lips near his ear. In a language older than the mountains around us, I began to hum the Sending Song. The melody was ethereal, a lullaby for a soul returning to the Goddess.

As the ancient words flowed from me, the lines of pain on Silas’s face softened. His expression became peaceful.

Outside, a single beam of moonlight pierced the clouds, spilling through the cabin's small window and bathing him in a silver glow. It was the Goddess, come to collect her own.

He exhaled one last time, and the life-scent of him vanished completely.

I stopped singing. For a long moment, I simply watched him in the quiet. Then, I leaned