Under the wolf's moon

The forest breathed with life as the last hues of twilight surrendered to night. Soft breezes whispered through towering pines and ancient oaks, rustling leaves like secrets too old to be spoken aloud. The air, thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, held a hush that only the sacred woods dared command a silence filled with both reverence and unease.

Aria moved through the undergrowth with measured grace, her satchel clinking softly with vials of herbs and tinctures. Moonlight bathed her path in silver, shimmering on the dew-kissed grass. The glow didn't merely illuminate her; it embraced her, casting an otherworldly sheen across her fair skin and catching in her silver-threaded hair. Under the moon, she looked more spirit than human.

But Aria was very much of flesh and blood. Her hands, calloused from grinding roots and stitching wounds, bore testament to the life she led, one of service, sacrifice, and secrets.

A low groan broke the stillness, drawing her toward a copse near a trickling stream. There, under the twisted boughs of a willow, lay a young man clutching his side, crimson soaking through a makeshift bandage of torn cloth.

"Joren, she breathed, kneeling beside him. His face was pale, lips tinged blue from shock, but he managed a weak smile.

"Didn't want to wait for you to find me at the village," he joked, voice strained.

Aria's brow knitted with concern. "You shouldn't have come out here alone."

He winced. "Didn't have much choice. The others are too scared. Said the forest's no place for humans after sundown."

"Maybe they're right," Aria murmured, not looking up. Her fingers were already working, tugging aside his bandage with practiced ease. The wound was deep, clawed, not cut. Jagged tears in the flesh suggested an animal attack. Or something worse.

She reached for her pouch, producing a vial of thick amber salve and a roll of clean linen. "This'll burn," she warned.

Joren nodded, jaw tightening.

She applied the salve swiftly, pressing the cloth against the wound as his body arched in pain. His scream was muffled by the forest's damp hush, swallowed before it could travel far.

As she worked, her skin began to emit a faint glow, subtle at first, then more pronounced as the moon crested above the trees. It wasn't unnatural, not harsh like lantern light, but soft and warm, like candlefire behind silk. Her magic was ancient, wild yet tender, bound not by spells or rituals but by instinct and inheritance.

She hadn't learned it from books. No one had taught her. It simply was, as much a part of her as breath and bone.

Joren stared, awe momentarily eclipsing pain. "You're glowing again."

"Shh." Aria pressed her palm over the dressing, and the light flowed from her into the wound, dulling his agony. The healing wasn't complete, it never was with deep injuries, but it would keep him alive through the night.

Behind her, the trees groaned under the weight of a breeze that wasn't there moments before. Distant, the low and mournful howl of a wolf echoed through the valley.

Aria froze, head lifted like a deer catching scent of a hunter.

"Was that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Joren tensed. "They're getting bolder. That's the third night in a row."

Aria rose, casting her gaze into the shadows between the trees. "They're not hunting us."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

She turned away from the forest's edge, but not before she caught the faintest glimmer of amber eyes watching from the darkness gone in a blink.

The villagers called them beasts, monsters, and demons wrapped in fur and fangs. But Aria had always sensed something deeper, something mournful, something sacred. The forest was theirs long before humans laid claim to its borders. And she suspected they only watched because they remembered what had been lost.

"Let's get you home," she said, looping Joren's arm over her shoulders.

They limped together toward the forest's edge, shadows stretching long in the moonlight. As they walked, Aria felt the familiar pull in her chest the quiet calling that always stirred when the moon rose full and heavy.

She belonged here, among the trees, in the hush of sacred woods. And yet, she lived among those who feared it.

By the time they reached the village's outer path, the night had deepened, stars blazing in the sky like frozen fire. The cluster of cottages ahead flickered with lanternlight, hearth fires glowing behind shuttered windows. A hush hung over the settlement not the peaceful quiet of sleep, but a tense stillness born of fear.

The howls had rattled them.

"Take him inside," Aria instructed two villagers who rushed to meet them. "He'll need rest and willow bark tea. No heavy lifting for a week."

The men nodded, their eyes flitting nervously toward the woods.

"Aria," one of them asked, voice low, "did you see anything? Are they close?"

She hesitated. "They're watching, but they haven't crossed the river."

The man paled. "Yet."

She didn't reply. What could she say? That the creatures they feared had watched her with eyes not of hunger, but recognition? That she sometimes dreamed of running on all fours, of wind in her hair and blood on her tongue?

That the moon called to her not just with beauty, but with kinship?

She stepped back into the shadows, leaving the firelight behind. The forest loomed behind her, a wall of black and silver, alive with whispers only she could hear. She raised her hand and watched the moonlight dance along her skin. The glow was brighter now, as if the forest itself welcomed her return.

Somewhere deep within, a howl rose closer this time. Not threatening. Not even mournful.

Summoning.

Aria closed her eyes, heartbeat steady. She knew this path would lead her away from everything she thought she was. But the truth had begun to stir quiet, relentless, ancient.

The night was far from over.