Chapter 5- When the Moon Turns Away

The cold had teeth that winter.

It bit through my cloak, through my skin, through my bones until I felt hollow inside. The Silvermoon camp lay shrouded beneath a heavy quilt of snow, every hut half-buried, every path a jagged trail of ice and slush. Smoke trickled lazily from chimneys, the only warmth in a world that had forgotten the sun.

Two weeks had passed since the Shadowfang delegation left. Two weeks of silence, then whispers, then sharpened cruelty. The pack had been restless ever since their departure. Tension clung to every word spoken, every order given. I had become their favorite outlet the stray they could cut down without fear of consequence.

That morning, I tried to keep my head low. I moved quietly, hoping to finish my chores before anyone thought to notice me. But luck had never been mine to claim.

“Selene!”

The bark of my name froze me in place. I turned slowly to see Malric, the Beta’s favored son, standing in the training yard. His breath steamed in the frosted air, and in his hand he held a practice sword.

The yard was half-buried in snow, the wooden dummies stiff with ice, but the younger wolves were already gathered around, their eyes bright with expectation. Malric’s smirk widened when he saw me hesitate.

“Come,” he called, tossing the sword into the snow at my feet. “Show them how not to fight.”

Laughter bubbled immediately through the group, sharp and cruel. Their eyes gleamed with the thrill of coming spectacle.

I could have walked away. I should have. But walking away meant surrender, and surrender always carried a price. They would make sure I paid it later, when no one was watching.

So I bent, picked up the sword, and stepped into the yard.

The fight lasted less than a minute.

Malric’s strikes were heavy, deliberate, meant not to test my skill but to humiliate me. He swung wide so the others could see, the wood cracking against mine with jarring force. My hands were stiff from the cold, my grip unsteady. I managed to block the first few blows, but the numbness in my fingers betrayed me.

The next strike tore the sword from my grasp, sending it spinning across the snow. The laughter swelled.

Before I could recover, he lunged forward and shoved me hard. My knees slammed into the frozen ground, pain lancing up my legs.

“See?” Malric called, turning to his audience. “A stray can’t be trained into a wolf.”

The pack roared with laughter, some clapping him on the back. Their eyes slid over me like I was less than dirt.

I said nothing. Words meant nothing here.

I forced myself up, brushed the snow from my cloak, and walked out of the yard. Each step was heavier than the last, but I would not give them the sight of me limping. I would not give them my pain.

By midday, the wind had turned razor-sharp, stinging my eyes and cutting my cheeks raw. Garrick, the Beta, sent me to fetch water from the river a mile each way through knee-deep snow. I carried the buckets with stiff arms, the icy water sloshing over my boots, soaking through to my toes until they were numb blocks of flesh.

On the way back, voices rose ahead of me. Shouting. A small crowd had gathered near the outer huts. My stomach clenched even before I reached them.

In the center of the circle, a child was crying. Blood trickled down her forehead from a cut near her temple.

“What happened?” I asked, setting the buckets down. My voice was hoarse, brittle from disuse.

“She fell,” someone muttered.

“No.” Another voice cut sharp through the air. Liora. She stepped forward, her arms folded, her expression carved from ice. “Selene pushed her.”

The world stilled. My head snapped toward her. “That’s a lie.”

Gasps. Murmurs. Wolves leaning closer like the scent of blood had just hit the wind.

Liora’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m saying I didn’t touch her.” My voice was steady, but inside my chest, my heart pounded.

The crowd’s whispers swelled, overlapping, circling me like a pack waiting for the kill. No one stepped in to defend me. No one ever did.

Before I could speak again, a voice boomed behind me.

“Enough.”

The crowd parted. Garrick strode forward, his shoulders squared, his authority a weight that pressed against the air. His gaze flicked over the child, then landed on me. Unreadable. Always unreadable.

“Storage hut,” he said coldly. “You’ll stay there until I decide what to do with you.”

The storage hut was dark, reeking of old grain and damp fur. Cold seeped through the cracks in the walls, wrapping me in its merciless arms. I sat on a crate, my knees pulled tight to my chest, my breath fogging in the stale air.

Hours passed. The hunger in my stomach gnawed, sharp and relentless. No food came. My fingers stiffened until I couldn’t flex them properly. The silence pressed against me like another punishment.

I thought of my children their laughter, their small warm hands that had once fit so perfectly in mine. But even those memories felt distant, muffled by time and pain.

When the door finally opened, night had fallen. Elder Calen stood in the frame, a lantern casting long shadows behind him. His eyes softened briefly when they landed on me.

“They’ve let you out,” he said quietly. “For now.”

I followed him into the snow. The camp was subdued, most wolves tucked into their huts against the bitter wind. Only the distant howling of sentries broke the night.

“Why do you stay?” Calen asked suddenly, his voice almost swallowed by the wind. “You could run. Disappear into the wild. You’re strong enough to make it alone.”

I shook my head, the weight of the truth pressing heavy. “And go where? Every pack within a hundred miles would turn me away. Or worse.”

He sighed, the sound old and weary. “Then survive, Selene. But don’t mistake surviving for living.”

His words lingered in the air long after he left me at my hut.

But I didn’t go inside. My legs carried me past it, past the silent huts, past the edge of the camp where the snow lay undisturbed. My feet found their way, as they always had, to the ancient oak tree.

It towered against the night sky, its branches black and bare, a skeleton clawing at the clouds. As a child, I had believed this tree was sacred. I had knelt in its roots and whispered prayers, imagining that the Moon Goddess listened. That the silver light spilling between the branches was her blessing, her promise that I wasn’t alone.

But tonight, the sky was empty. The clouds smothered the moon, leaving the world in a darkness so complete it felt like abandonment.

I sank to my knees in the snow. My breath came ragged, tearing at my throat. For years, I had swallowed my grief, buried it beneath layers of silence and stone. But something in me cracked open beneath that tree.

The sobs ripped free before I could stop them. Raw, shuddering, scraping sounds that clawed their way out of my chest.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered, voice breaking. “If you’re listening… if you ever cared… give me something. Anything.”

The wind howled through the branches, a cruel answer. No light. No warmth. No goddess.

Only silence.

I stayed there until the cold seeped into my marrow, until I couldn’t feel my fingers, until even tears froze on my lashes.

When at last I rose, my body was stiff, my legs trembling beneath me. I trudged back to my hut, numb inside and out.

That night, I didn’t dream of escape.

I didn’t dream at all.

And somewhere, far from Silvermoon, a wolf with eyes like midnight began his journey toward me.