Too Skinny To Be Luna
By the time they lay me down in a narrow hospital bed, my whole body feels hollowed out, scraped clean, like whatever woke inside me during the ceremony borrowed every ounce of strength I had and hasn't decided whether to give it back.
I sleep. I don't mean to. It just happens — my eyes close somewhere between the healer pressing a cool cloth to my forehead and the low murmur of voices arguing outside my door, and the next thing I know, hours have passed and the window shows the gray edge of morning.
News, apparently, doesn't sleep.
(WRITER’S POV)
By sunrise, word has already crossed pack borders.
The True Luna may have awakened.
Six words, and they travel faster than any messenger wolf coul