To whoever finds this, know that I am a wild creature. My skin shifts at will—fur rising, bones melding and reshaping in an instant, obeying a will no one can tame. A will so indomitable that none could hope to control it. I am the last of the Touched, the original pact, and therefore our best hope of surviving this war alive.
It doesn't feel that way. Each day I wake to more dead. The hope is gone. It fled with the blessings we once enjoyed as one of the twelve sacred packs. Gone, too, are the songs of the old prayers, the light of the moon's favour. Each dawn I rise and whisper a quiet plea to the goddess who no longer answers.
Each morning, I wake and pray—one of a people forsaken by the Moon Goddess—for just a touch of her moonlight to grace us with strength, vitality, wisdom. To bless me with a way forward that doesn't involve the sacrifice of my own life. But when the sun breaks over the treetops, I find only heat, silence, and the bitter taste of disillusionment. If I were more clever, more creative—perhaps I'd see another path.
But I don't.
Instead, I am met with the ache in my chest and the ghosts pressing at the corners of my mind. With the weight of my bloodline, cursed by a father who murdered a queen, and the duty of a kingdom on the brink of collapse. I am haunted—by the dead, by memory, and lately… by something else.
Something I can't name.
The truth is, I don't remember my dreams anymore. Not clearly. Not fully. Just flashes. Moments that cling to my skin like sweat. The scent of frost where there shouldn't be any. The phantom heat of fire against my cheeks. A strange sensation—like being watched from behind a thin wall of glass, just before waking.
There are mornings I open my eyes with my heart already racing, breath shallow, sweat dampening my collar. But when I try to remember, the details dissolve like mist. Only the unease remains, sticky and persistent.
I try not to think about it. What else can I do?
So I press forward, always forward, to save my people.
-Elsbeth MoonChild, Alpha of the Cursed 12th Pack
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The sun beat down, harsh and merciless, as I stepped from the makeshift lean-to pressed against the thick trunk of a jungle tree. Our new sanctuary was barely more than a half-forgotten ruin, a crumbling temple tucked into the southern wilds, hidden by overgrowth and prayer. It was the last moon temple left in our kingdom—more bones than shrine now, but still sacred. Still powerful.
And maybe, just maybe, still watching.
It had been beautiful once, a revered place that time wouldn't touch. And the only place you can initiate the Rite of Queens in the kingdom --the only place you could connect with the Moon Goddess. The temple being on the 12th's pack grounds was something that had irked my former mate desperately before he rejected me. Before he started to hunt my pack.
I once dreamed of her—of the Moon Goddess. I used to believe we'd meet. That our fates were knotted by something greater than politics or blood. But that dream—like so many others—had gone silent after my father had torn his blood ties by murdering another of the touched, our former queen.
The world beyond the goddess's light is colder than I ever imagined. Even in the oppressive heat of the southern jungle, it feels empty. Hollow. Her absence is a wound, raw and aching, and I carry it like a stone against my ribs.
But duty keeps me upright. It always has.
Fred arrived a moment later, breathless and drenched in sweat. His tunic clung to his chest, dark with moisture, and his face was flushed. The jungle's humidity wrapped around him like guilt.
"Alpha," he panted. "The boat—it's done. The omegas just finished."
I didn't answer right away. My jaw clenched.
"You know I won't leave them," I said.
He didn't argue. Not yet. He just stared at me like a wolf trying not to bare his teeth. Them was the 300 or so souls of the remaining members of our pack, 30 of which are pups.
The rest of the scene unfolded as it had a dozen times over the last few nights—Fred demanding I flee for the good of the pack, me reminding him that I am the reason they're being hunted in the first place. The dance of desperation we've perfected. A slow spiral of fury, frustration, and fear.
"They're not after the pack," Fred growled. "They're after you."
"And what happens after I leave?" I snapped, voice cold. "You think they'll just stop? You think they'll forget their bloodlust? Their pride? Or will they just slaughter all of you and then follow me anyway?"
He punched the stone wall beside us. I saw his skin split, red blooming before it stitched shut again. "Before this, you were a prime candidate to rule. Now look at us."
"I didn't kill the last queen," I hissed. "My father did."
"And the Moon doesn't seem to care."
The silence that followed was heavy. Unforgiving.
But I did have a plan. One last, desperate move.
"I need to claim her throne."
Fred froze.
"I'll mark the sacred altar at the front of the temple. Enter the Rite of Queens. If the Moon answers, they'll be forced to recognize my right to rule. My father's crime will be washed away in the flames."
"And if she doesn't answer?" he asked, low and sharp.
"Then I die."
He turned away from me, fists clenched. I saw the ripple of his fury through his back, the sharp line of his jaw tight with restraint.
Eventually, he spoke. "I'll take the youngest pups. Get them to the island under cover of night. I'll make a hundred trips if I have to." I could tell it gutted him to say it but I'd chosen him as my Beta for a reason.
I nodded once. The pain of it all threatened to choke me, but I held fast.
Tomorrow, when the 11th pack arrives, I will begin the ritual. The flames will rise, and with them, I will stake my claim. The fire will burn brightly and fiercely, and if I survive, I will ascend.
If not… at least I will have protected those I love and given them precious time to get away to one of the costal islands where hopefully the 11th will lose their scent and they'll be free.
As the day waned and the shadows stretched across the cracked stone courtyard, I stood alone for a while longer, watching the sky bruise to twilight. The temple loomed behind me, its shattered spires reaching toward the stars like broken fingers.
That sensation returned—the one I hadn't told Fred about.
The faintest shiver beneath my skin. The sense of being… seen.
It was not the goddess. Not the mother of moonlight who once whispered in my bones. This presence was colder. Ancient. Patient. Like something waiting beneath the ice, listening for the sound of its name.
I shook it off.
There were lives to save.
And no dream—forgotten or not—would stop me from doing what needed to be done.
If I burn, let it be a blaze they never forget.
If I fall, let it be on sacred ground.
And if I rise…
Let the world be warned.