Bound By The Moon's Curse

For generations, two packs ruled the wilds of Silvercrest; Moonfang in the frozen north, Ironclaw in the lowlands.

They shared the same blood, the same goddess, the same moon that marked their kind.

But the one thing they never shared was peace.

No one remembers how the first war began. Some say it started with a stolen mate. Others swear it was land, or pride, or the madness that comes when wolves forget mercy. Whatever the reason, the fighting lasted centuries. Whole villages vanished under the smoke of it.

The Moonfang wolves were hunters; stealthed, skilled and patient, born for the shadows. They fought like the wind, unseen until it was too late. The Ironclaw wolves were soldiers; trained, disciplined, and brutal. Their claws carried the scent of steel. When their armies clashed, the forest shook.

The Blood Moon War, they called it.

Every full moon painted the snow red.

The goddess who created them watched in silence, her power fading as her children tore each other apart. The balance she built…unity through the moon, shattered. Legends say she wept, and her tears fell as silver rain across Silvercrest. 

Where the rain touched, new rogues rose, twisted wolves, neither pack nor wild, driven only by bloodlust.

That was the goddess’s punishment: the birth of the rogues.

Instead of uniting against them, Moonfang and Ironclaw blamed each other. Every death deepened the grudge. Every child raised under the moon learned the same lesson…the enemy wears another name.

And so the war burned on.

Until three years ago.

An Ironclaw patrol vanished near the border. A Moonfang scout died the next night. Each side called the other murderer. Retaliation followed, fast and bloody. For three nights the valley burned, and when the flames died, both packs were half the size they’d been before.

Then something strange happened.

The Alphas — Elias Carter of Moonfang and Victor Holt of Ironclaw — called for peace.

No one knows why. Some said they were tired of burying sons. Others whispered of a prophecy, a warning carved in old stone that spoke of a bond strong enough to end the bloodline of both Alphas.

Whatever the reason, they met in secret under the new moon. Only one returned.

Victor Holt’s body was found three days later, sitting upright beside the river, eyes open, heart still. No scent, no blood, no wound. The healers called it a curse. Moonfang called it justice. Ironclaw called it murder.

The truce collapsed before it began.

Victor’s son, Adrian Holt, became Alpha at twenty-two; colder, harder, and forged by loss. He built Ironclaw into an army, trained to fight without hesitation. The pack obeyed out of fear, and fear kept them alive.

To the north, Elias Carter’s grief curdled into hate. He buried his wife, his son, and the last of his reason. What remained was a leader who ruled through loyalty bought with blood. His daughter, Lena, became his only weakness, the spark of light he guarded too fiercely.

For three years, the forest stayed quiet. No raids. No meetings. Only silence between two sides too wounded to fight again.

But silence doesn’t mean peace. It only means both sides are waiting for the next strike.

And now, with the rogues growing bolder and the goddess’s curse spreading through the mountains, the council has forced what neither Alpha wanted — a peace summit.

One last attempt to stop another Blood Moon War.

Two packs.

Two enemies bound by history and hate.

They will meet beneath the same sky that once blessed them.

But the moon doesn’t shine for peace anymore.

It watches for vengeance.

And soon, it will choose