That had been my hope for my own unborn son, the pup I had dreamed of.
It was the promise we had made to each other about our love.
It was also the name written in the Valeheart lineage scrolls for thirteen generations of firstborn heirs.
Years ago, when I threw myself between Selene and the rogues who had taken her captive, I took a blade meant for her. The wound damaged something deep within me—my ability to sire pups naturally was nearly destroyed.
Our first pup, conceived through the Moon-Blessing Rite, had been seven months along when she helped Dorian Frostclaw through a heat-draught that someone had slipped him. She spent that night tangled in his arms, and the bleeding that followed forced the healers to end the pregnancy early.
That pup had already taken form. A male.
I had planned to raise a rune-stone memorial for him and lay his remains in the ancestral burial grounds.
But the moon-reader said the pup had not reached full term before passing, and the timing was unfavorable. We would need to wait.
That wait stretched beyond a full year.
Throughout her pregnancy, Selene had whispered in my ear countless times, begging to give this illegitimate pup the name Noah Frostclaw.