The Stray Moon
Soren’s mouth twists, but before he can bark again, someone at the back—too young to know better—calls out, “If we keep her here, what stops her from infecting the pack?”
That’s what they really care about: not the law, not the prophecy, but the possibility of being changed. Of becoming something less.
I let the question linger. I want them to feel it. Then I raise my hand, a small motion amplified by years of authority.
“Nightwind,” I say, voice pitched to the space. “The Stray Moon stays. Not as pack, not as prisoner, but under guard. She’s our insurance against the prophecy, and my responsibility. Any wolf who touches her without order answers to me.”
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