My fingers trace the outline of the crescent moon carved into the dark wood. The lock is smooth, almost warm to the touch, and feels ancient, pulsing with a faint, dormant energy. The satchel itself is surprisingly heavy, filled with some unknown weight that pulls at my curiosity. This is a gift. A deliberate offering from the mythic creature that now sits watching me, its sapphire eyes blinking slowly, patiently.
My first instinct is a practical one. I try to force the lock. I pry at the edges with my ragged fingernails, I try to twist it, to find a seam or a hidden button. Nothing. It's a solid piece of wood, seamlessly integrated into the cracked leather. There is no keyhole, no mechanism that I can see. It is sealed as completely as a stone.
My frustration mounts. Why would this creature lead me here, offer this to me, if it's impossible to open? I glance at the Moon-Fox. It just watches, its expression unchanging. It offers no hints. It is waiting for me to understand.
A memory surfaces. The iron trap. The hiss of decaying metal under my touch. My power—this strange, new energy humming within me—it destroys dead things. It un-makes what is no longer alive. Perhaps it can un-make this lock.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to summon that feeling. I place my hand over the crescent moon, focusing my will, pushing that silvery energy from the core of me down my arm and into my palm. I press down, waiting for the familiar warmth, for the tingling sensation, for the satisfying sizzle of decay.
Nothing happens.
The wood remains solid and warm beneath my hand. No hiss. No corrosion. No dust. I open my eyes, a fresh wave of confusion washing over me. Why didn't it work? Is my power already gone? Did I imagine it all?
No. I look at my hand. The faint silvery glow is still there, a soft, ethereal light swirling just beneath my skin. The power is there. So why…?
My gaze falls upon the dark wood of the lock again. And then I understand. The wood is alive.
That's why it didn't corrode. My power, this lunar magic, is a force of life. It senses the essence of things—the pure, vibrant energy of the water and roots, the dead, stagnant signature of the iron. Iron is a dead metal, a blight upon the world. But this wood… this wood pulses with a life of its own, as ancient and potent as the trees around us. My magic won't harm it because it recognizes it as kin.
So how do I open it?
My mind races. A key. There must be a key. Not a physical one, but a conceptual one. A key that the lock will recognize. What makes me unique? What has changed? What is the source of this new power?
The moonlight from the storm. The warmth that settled on my face.
And the scar. The ugly, jagged mark that Damien gave me. The place where the moonlight gathered. The nexus of my transformation.
My heart begins to beat a little faster. It's an insane idea, born of desperation and a strange, newfound faith in the bizarre logic of this magical world. I lift the satchel, my hands trembling slightly. It feels heavier now, freighted with significance.
Holding my breath, I press my cheek—the cheek bearing the scar—firmly against the crescent moon carving on the lock. I close my eyes, feeling the smooth wood against my skin, against the ridges of the mark that I have come to loathe.
Click.
The sound is soft, almost inaudible, but it resonates through my entire body. It's the sound of a secret yielding. The sound of a door opening.
I pull the satchel away and stare. The wooden disc that was the lock has split perfectly in half, retracting into the leather like a blooming flower. The way is open.
Awe, profound and dizzying, makes me lightheaded. I look over at the Moon-Fox. It lets out a soft chuffing sound, a noise of approval, before laying its head down on its paws, as if to say, Finally. You understand.
My hands shake as I unfasten the leather flap. The smell that wafts out is of old parchment, dried herbs, and time itself. I reach inside and pull out the contents. It's not treasure, not gold or jewels. It's something infinitely more precious.
The first item is a journal, bound in dark, cracked leather. It's surprisingly well-preserved, the parchment pages thick and creamy. The second is a small, wickedly sharp knife. The handle is carved from the same dark wood as the lock, but the blade… the blade is made of pure, polished silver, and it seems to drink the light, glowing with a soft, cold radiance.
I set the knife aside and open the journal. The first page is a stunning, intricate sketch of the Moon in all her phases, from a sliver of a crescent to a brilliant, powerful full moon. Beneath it, written in an elegant, flowing script that is somehow both precise and artistic, are the first words.
"The Moon asks for no worship. She asks only to be remembered. For in remembrance, there is power."
I turn the page, my heart pounding. This is it. This is the key. The answers I so desperately need.
The next several pages are a treasure trove of forgotten knowledge. There are detailed botanical sketches of herbs I've never seen, with notes on how to use them not for healing shifters, but for focusing lunar energy. There are star charts that map not just the constellations, but the flow of ethereal energy through the cosmos. There are descriptions of the power of the tides, of scrying in pools of still water, of feeling the turn of the seasons in your own bones.
It's a manual. A textbook for my own soul. I am enthralled, my hunger to know more a ravenous beast. I devour the words, my fingers tracing the elegant script as if to absorb the knowledge through my very skin. I am so engrossed, I don't realize how much time has passed until the light in the clearing begins to fade.
I find a section titled, "On Our Lineage and Our Foes."
My breath catches. This is the history I was denied, the truth of my bloodline.
"We are the daughters of the first light," the journal reads. "We do not shift our skins as the Wolf-children do. We shift the world around us. We are the tenders of the wild magic, the weavers of life, the singers of the song that the Moon began. For this, the first wolf packs revered us. They saw us as wise women, as healers, as conduits of the Goddess."
The script continues, calm and proud.
"But their reverence was shallow, born of a need for our gifts. As they grew in number and strength, their pride grew with them. The Alphas, proud and strong, began to see our power not as a gift to be respected, but as a rival force to be controlled or eliminated. They could not command the tides. They could not read the stars. They feared what they could not dominate."
I have to stop reading for a moment, the words hitting me with the force of a physical blow. Feared what they could not dominate. It's a perfect description of Damien. He saw a power in me he didn't recognize, and his first and only instinct was to destroy it.
My hand tightens on the book. With a sense of mounting dread, I continue reading. The elegant script on the next page is different. It's faster, the lines slightly jagged, as if written in a great and sudden hurry. The ink is darker in places, splotched as if the writer's hand was trembling.
The calm, instructional tone is gone, replaced by something frantic. Fearful.
"The pacts are broken. The age of reverence is over. An Alpha of the Blackwood line, maddened by a thirst for absolute power, has made a dark bargain. He has found a new master, a smith who dwells in the silence between worlds. A smith who forges hunters from soulless iron and promised to cleanse the world of our 'unpredictable' magic in exchange for a piece of the Alpha's own soul."
My blood turns to ice. The Blackwood line. My own pack.
My eyes fly across the page, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"The Iron Hounds have found my trail. They can smell the Moon's Mark. Their claws are forged in the silence of a dead world, and they do not stop. They do not tire. They hunt for the scent of our magic. By the time you read this, sister, I am surely dust. Do not let your light become a beacon for them."