The Howl Beneath The Moon

The heavy oak doors of the Alpha’s Den slammed shut behind Diva, cutting her off from the cacophony of voices outside. The silence that followed wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating. The echoes of the pack still vibrated in her ears, half praise, half poison, but the stone walls muted them now. Only the exhaustion remained, wrapped around her like a second skin.

She stood at the heart of the Pack Hall, breath uneven, claws retracting back into human flesh. Her limbs ached from the shift, her body sore from battle. And deep within, her inner wolf—her soul beast—was curled in silence. Not gone. Just… shaken. Dormant.

The pack warriors had seen her stand between Alpha Derek and death itself. They’d seen her challenge Ronan’s madness with fang and fury. Some had bowed their heads in respect. Others had whispered behind clawed hands. And Kyra’s venom still echoed in her memory.

"She’s not Luna-blood. Derek doesn't even scent her as his true mate."

Diva's jaw tensed. Her molars ached from the pressure. She turned and climbed the stairs, her boots dragging across stone worn smooth by generations of wolves. From the windows, she could still hear the murmurs from the courtyard—the arguments, the judgment, the disbelief. Some hailed her as Moon-touched, others called her bond with Derek a cursed tie.

She hadn’t answered them. She had simply raised a hand, her voice steady as stone, and told them to leave.

Now, alone, every word returned like claws raking her flesh.

She reached her quarters and pushed the door open. The room greeted her with silence and the soft gleam of moonlight washing across her bed. Her legs gave way, and she dropped onto the furs, cloak still torn, boots caked in dried blood and mud. She didn’t shift back fully. There was no strength left for that.

Her wolf stirred faintly within her—just a soft growl, more ache than sound.

“Rest now,” she whispered to herself, curling on the edge of the bed.

Sleep swallowed her almost instantly, a dark tide pulling her under.

---

She was in the forest.

But not the one she knew.

This was sacred land—old magic seeped into the roots. Trees rose like sentinels, veiled in silver fog. The air was thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and blood memory.

She was no longer in her two-legged skin.

Paws thudded against the ground. She was fully shifted, fur slicked with mist, her breath fogging with each exhale. She didn’t remember phasing. But her wolf ran, muscles burning, heart pounding.

Something hunted her.

The forest spoke in the ancient tongue—Wolven, only understood by true-blooded shifters. The trees whispered warnings. Spirits stirred.

Then the howl came.

Not just any howl—a deep, commanding Alpha’s call. Male. Wild. Unhinged.

Her heartbeat skipped.

She didn’t dare look back.

She pushed harder, leaping over roots and ducking low branches, her ears pinned, tail down.

Behind her, a shadow moved—always near but never catching. A figure cloaked in night, with eyes that burned gold through the mist. She couldn’t see his muzzle, but she felt him. Felt the bond, the pull.

Not Derek. But kin to him in power. Or worse—older.

The scent hit her like a blow: pine ash, dark musk, and the iron tang of forgotten bloodlines. Her hackles rose. Her soul beast whimpered in confusion. It wasn’t just fear. It was recognition. Her lineage stirred.

She stumbled, paws snagging on a tangle of roots. The forest caught her.

And he closed in.

She tried to rise, to flee, but her limbs refused to obey. Her body betrayed her.

Then—he spoke.

"You can’t run from the blood that made you."

The voice was a growl, old and sacred.

Diva snapped awake with a cry.

Back in her bed, sweat slicked her skin, her chest heaving. Her hands gripped the tangled furs like they were lifelines. Her pulse thudded like war drums in her ears.

She blinked at the room—still bathed in moonlight, still silent.

But the scent clung to her.

Pine. Ash. And something wild.

She looked down at her wrist.

Marks.

Dark, thin bruises. As if clawed fingers had gripped her in the dream—and left evidence behind.

Her wolf stirred inside her, tail low, ears flicking. Uneasy. Disoriented. That made it worse.

What kind of dream left marks?

What kind of shadow left a scent?

Her mind spun. That voice—that growl—hadn't just haunted her. It had called to her. Her wolf hadn’t responded with defense. She had responded with instinct.

Recognition.

She rose from the bed and walked to the window. The moon was full now, staring down through the canopy like the eye of the Moon Goddess herself. Silent. Watching.

Was it a vision?

A message?

Or a bloodline awakening?

She pressed a hand to her chest. Her wolf paced beneath her skin.

Derek…

But that hadn’t been Derek in the dream.

Or had it?

She touched the bruise again. Real. Cold. Present.

And below her confusion, below the fear… something primal stirred.

A pull.

A tether.

Someone—or something—had reached for her in the dreamrealm. And left a mark in the waking world.

Far in the distance, a wolf howled. Low. Long. Alone.

Diva closed her eyes.

She didn’t know if it was a cry for help—or a declaration of war.