Marked By Moonfire

The first lesson the Hunters taught was obedience.

The second was discipline.

The third was never, ever hesitate.

Nova had failed them all.

She was twelve when they set her first trial. The courtyard of the Compound was crowded with

eyes, hard and expectant. A wolf was chained to the post, its muzzle bloody from where it had tried

to bite through iron. Its sides heaved with ragged breaths, ribs visible beneath a matted coat.

The elders stood around the circle, Ezra among the apprentices behind them. He was already taller than most, jaw set with determination. He carried himself like someone destined to be respected.

“End it” , the elder commanded, thrusting a blade into Nova’s hand.

Her fingers curled around the hilt, small against the steel. The wolf’s eyes found hers, wild yet

strangely lucid. She stepped closer, heart hammering, every instinct screaming to obey.

But when she raised the knife, her body locked. The wolf let out a low whine, not of rage but of

pain. And suddenly she couldn’t move.

She lowered the blade.

Murmurs spread through the crowd. Weak. Coward. Useless.

The elder’s face darkened.

“Strike, girl!”

Before the silence could stretch further, Ezra moved. He stepped past her, snatched the blade, and drove it quickly into the wolf’s chest. The creature’s body sagged, lifeless, blood seeping into the dirt.

The circle erupted in approval—not for her, but for him.

Ezra glanced at her once, his eyes unreadable. To the others, it looked like judgment. To Nova, it

felt like a warning: next time, no one will save you.

Years passed. She trained harder than anyone, bruises layering her skin, bowstring scars etching

her fingers. She became swift, precise, but the whispers never faded.

“She’s different. She

hesitates. She’s not one of us, it’s almost like she’s one of them. ”

Ezra never spoke of the trial again, but Nova felt the distance growing. Where once he laughed

beside her at night fires, now he stood apart, watching her with a gaze she couldn’t decipher.

The fracture came on a winter evening, when the Hunters gathered in the hall. Smoke clung to the

rafters, torches throwing sharp shadows. The elders stood at the dais, voices carrying above the crackle of flames.

“Nova. ”

The name cut like a blade.

“Step forward.”

She obeyed, pulse hammering. Every eye turned.

“You are a liability” the elder declared.

“Your hesitation has cost us hunts, your compassion has made us weak. You are not worthy of the name Hunter.”

A ripple of murmurs ran through the hall. Some nodded, others sneered.

Nova’s chest burned.

“I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve trained, I’ve bled—”

“Training is nothing without conviction” the elder snapped.

“You are half-hearted. Half-blood. A stain on our ranks.”

Laughter broke out—sharp, cruel. Half-blood. The word sliced deeper than any blade.

She searched the crowd, desperate for one face that might defend her. Ezra’s eyes met hers across the hall. But he said nothing.

The silence was worse than the insults.

Heat surged up her throat, choking her. She turned and walked out before they could see her tears.

The cold night swallowed her. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she stumbled into the forest, the jeers still echoing in her skull. Half-blood. Not one of us.

She ran until her lungs burned, until her legs gave way beneath her. She collapsed in a clearing,

breath misting the air, hands clutching fistfuls of frozen earth.

Her chest ached, raw and hollow. For years, she had carved herself into the shape they demanded, sharper, harder, faster. And still it wasn’t enough. She would never be enough.

The sky opened above her, vast and endless, the moon swollen and white. She lifted her face toward it, tears streaking cold against her skin.

And then she heard it.

A whisper. Soft as breath, curling through the silence.

Nova.

She froze. Her heart lurched.

Again, the voice brushed against her bones, threaded with silver light. Nova…

Heat surged in her chest, a fire she couldn’t name, burning brighter than her grief. She gasped,

clutching at the ache, trembling as though the moon itself had reached down and touched her.

The whispers of the Hunters faded behind her. The laughter, the shame—it all blurred, distant as

smoke.

She wasn’t just running from them. She was being called to something else.

Something older. Something waiting.

The moon blazed above her, and the voice came one last time, strong enough to leave her shaking.

Nova.

She closed her eyes. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel weak. She felt chosen.