Chapter Two: The Drone

(Rhett’s POV)

It was supposed to be a ten-minute errand.

Find the drone. Bring it back. Pretend nothing happened.

But the woods at the edge of Winsdale had a way of making time feel... different. I’d been walking for almost an hour, and my signal still pointed deeper, into the kind of dark that looked straight out of a horror movie.

And above me, the full moon hung low, enormous, silver, bathing the trees in ghostly light. It wasn’t just light — it felt aware, almost watchful. Shadows stretched and warped unnaturally beneath it. Every movement of the leaves seemed magnified, every rustle sharper.

Then I saw it: a faint shimmer near the tree line — almost like moonlight had pooled and turned to liquid, glowing softly on the moss. I assumed it was mist, maybe a trick of the light. My pulse quickened, curiosity overtaking caution.

I stepped forward.

The moment my foot crossed that shimmer, the air shifted. Sounds stretched and warped. The forest smelled sharper, richer — pine mixed with something earthy and metallic. Shadows moved differently, and every instinct in me whispered: you are no longer in the forest you know.

And then I heard voices.

Low, rhythmic, deliberate murmurs that seemed to vibrate in the air. I froze, forcing my breathing to slow. Campers? A local ritual? Something was wrong — obviously. But I couldn’t turn back. Not now.

The trees opened into a clearing, and I stopped.

A fire burned in the center. Around it, a dozen figures, tall and alert, their gold eyes glowing in the flickering light. And in the middle, a woman.

Silver hair, catching the moonlight like molten silver. Her green eyes glowed, impossibly vivid. Her hands flexed slightly, revealing fur along her arms and long, sharp claws at her fingertips. 

For a second, I thought I’d stumbled onto some kind of historical reenactment. Until I noticed the way they stood — straight, alert, focused — and the faint silver glimmer that traced the dirt beneath their feet like markings.

“What the—”

Before I could finish, my boot crunched on a stick. Every head turned.

“Crap,” I whispered.

I froze. Half of me wanted to run. The other half was locked on the figure in the center — a woman. She stood taller than most of them, her silver hair catching the firelight, her expression unreadable.

Her eyes found mine instantly. Green . Sharp. Glowing.

And for a heartbeat, the world tilted.

I forgot how to breathe.

“Who’s that?” someone murmured.

“He’s human,” another voice answered.

I took a step back. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to— I’m just looking for my drone, I—”

Then the ground trembled.

It wasn’t an earthquake. It was like the air itself pulsed — a low, rhythmic beat that hummed through my bones. The fire flared brighter. Symbols on the ground glowed white-hot.

“What the hell is going on?” I shouted.

The woman — the silver-haired one — looked furious. But not at me. At whatever was happening.

“Stop the ritual!” someone yelled.

But it was too late.

Something invisible hit me like a shockwave. My vision blurred, and the world turned white. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees, gasping for air, my skin burning where the light had touched me.

When my sight cleared, they were all staring.

The woman’s expression had changed completely — her confidence replaced by disbelief.

“No,” she whispered. “The Moon’s chosen...”

A man beside her muttered, “He’s not even one of us.”

“What?” I croaked, still dizzy.

The woman stepped closer. “You shouldn’t have been here.”

“I told you— I was just looking for my drone!”

But her gaze fixed on my collarbone, and I followed it — to a faint, glowing mark that hadn’t been there before. A curved symbol, silver against my skin.

“What the hell is that?” I said, backing away.

The others began murmuring, words I couldn’t catch. I didn’t understand any of it. None of it made sense.

The woman’s voice broke through the noise, low and sharp:

“The Moon has made her choice.”

“Choice?” I echoed, incredulous. “Lady, I don’t even know you.”

But her eyes darkened — not in anger, but in resignation. “You’re my Luna.”

“Your what now?”

Before I could move, one of the men came forward and grabbed my arm. I tried to fight him off, but my limbs felt heavy, sluggish. I didn’t even know what “Luna” meant, but I was sure I didn’t want any part of it.

“Let me go!” I yelled.

The woman turned away. “Take him to the den. I’ll deal with him later.”

And as they dragged me toward the shadows, I caught her last words, spoken so quietly I almost thought I imagined them:

“The Moon made her mistake. Let her live with it.”

Then everything went dark.