I woke long before dawn, pulled from sleep not by routine or sound, but by the moon itself—thinning, yet powerful enough to reach into my chest and wrench me awake like it always had. I didn’t cry. There was no familiar ache this time. Only uneven breaths, short and sharp, as though the wolf inside me had grown tired of being trapped in skin that felt too brittle, too soft, too human. My flesh tingled, veins vibrating with a restless energy that felt older than memory.
I splashed my face with cool water, tied my hair back neatly, and pressed balm to my lips—not to look pretty, but to disguise myself. A cover. Something that said alive enough, harmless enough. The meek Luna they thought I still was. Beneath it all, though, my wolf paced, silent and watchful, lips curled back from unseen fangs.
I bent down and reached beneath the bed.