The first time I danced under the full moon, I was twelve years old and running for my life.
It wasn’t a celebration. It wasn’t a ritual. It was a hunt.
They came at twilight—Council enforcers in black, silver daggers at their hips, bloodhounds at their heels. My mother shoved me into the forest, her hands burning against mine, her voice low and fierce: *“Run, Zara. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. And when the moon rises—dance. Let the fire answer. They’ll think you’re feral. They’ll think you’re lost. But you’ll be free.”*
I ran.
I didn’t stop.
And when the moon rose, I danced.
Barefoot on cold stone, my body shifting between wolf and witch, fire spiraling from my palms, my howl echoing through the trees. I wasn’t free.
But I was alive.
Now, years later, I stand at the edge of the Hollow Maw, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright, and the full moon hangs above like a silver coin in a bloodstained sky.
But this time, I’m not running.
This time, I’m leading.
—
The Full Moon Festival begins at dusk.
Not with silence. Not with shadows.
With music.
Drums first—deep, resonant, pounding like a heartbeat beneath the stone. Then flutes, sharp and wild, weaving through the air like spirits. Then voices—werewolves howling in harmony, witches chanting in low, ancient tones, Fae singing in a language older than the Council, humans adding their own rhythm with hand drums and clapping.
And then—
The fire.
Not the red-gold of my Emberborn magic. Not the black-silver of Kaelen’s cursed blood. But a thousand flames, rising from braziers along the Maw’s edge, spiraling upward in a great ring of light that pulses with the beat, with the magic, with the life of the city.
People pour into the square—hybrids, wolves, witches, Fae, humans—some in traditional garb, some in modern clothes, all moving with a freedom that still feels new, still feels fragile. Children dart between the braziers, their laughter ringing like bells. Couples hold hands, their scents mingling in the night air. Elders sit on stone benches, their eyes closed, their faces turned to the moon, their lips moving in silent prayer.
And at the center—
Kaelen.
He stands bare-chested, his long coat open, his storm-gray eyes scanning the crowd, his fangs just past his lip, his claws retracted but ready. Not as a threat. Not as a warning.
As a promise.
He sees me before I reach him.
His gaze locks onto mine, and the bond humms—low, steady, alive—like a current beneath my skin. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod.
Just holds out his hand.
And I take it.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to.
—
“You’re late,” he says, his voice rough, close to my ear as he pulls me into the circle.
“I was teaching,” I say. “A girl lit her first flame today. Didn’t burn anything. Didn’t panic. Just… smiled.”
He looks at me—really looks—and I see it.
Not pride.
Peace.
“You’re good at that,” he says. “Being soft.”
“I’m not soft,” I say, stepping into him, my hand sliding up his chest, over his shoulder, to his neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. “I’m just finally not afraid of what I am.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me close, one arm wrapping around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
And then—
The drums change.
The rhythm shifts—faster, sharper, wilder—and the crowd parts, forming a wide circle around us. The fire flares. The voices rise. And the wolves begin to howl—not in mourning, not in war, but in joy.
“They’re waiting,” I say, my lips brushing his ear.
“Let them wait,” he murmurs, his fangs grazing my pulse. “I’m not done with you.”
But we both know we are.
Not with each other.
With the past.
—
The Full Moon Festival is an old tradition—older than the Council, older than the Purity Edict, older than the Marked Alphas. It was a time when werewolves danced with witches, when Fae traded secrets for fire, when humans brought offerings to the edge of the Veil and were not turned away.
Then the Council came.
And they made it a test.
A trial of control. A display of dominance. A way to shame the hybrids, to expose the weak, to punish those who dared to shift under the moon’s pull.
Now, we’re reclaiming it.
Not as a test.
As a celebration.
—
The dance begins with the wolves.
Not the Alphas. Not the Enforcers.
The children.
A group of half-wolves, no more than ten, step into the firelight, their bodies already shifting—ears twitching, claws emerging, tails flicking. They don’t hide. Don’t fear. Just move—low, fluid, powerful—circling the braziers, their howls weaving with the drums, their magic pulsing in time with the moon.
And then—
The witches.
Not in robes. Not in chains.
In leather and silk, their hands glowing with sigils, their voices rising in a chant that isn’t spellwork, but song. They dance in pairs, weaving fire and breath, their bodies shifting between form and flame, their magic spiraling into the night like ribbons of light.
And then—
The Fae.
Not in glamour. Not in lies.
In truth.
They step forward—male, female, neither—their bodies shifting between flesh and fire, their laughter echoing like wind through trees. They don’t hide their nature. Don’t fear their power. Just dance—wild, free, unafraid.
And then—
The humans.
Not as observers. Not as prey.
As participants.
They step into the circle—some with drums, some with flutes, some with nothing but their voices—and they dance. Not like wolves. Not like witches. Like themselves. And the magic answers—humming in their bones, pulsing in their blood, lighting their eyes with something ancient and wild.
And then—
Us.
Kaelen and I step into the center.
Not as rulers.
As mates.
The drums shift—deeper, slower, more primal—and the fire flares, spiraling around us in a ring of gold and black. The crowd falls silent. Not in fear. Not in awe.
In recognition.
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate.
He pulls me close, one hand on my lower back, the other cradling my head, and we begin to move.
Not like wolves.
Not like witches.
Like us.
My body shifts—low, powerful, fluid. My hands carve sigils in the air. My feet strike the stone. My fire weaves with his magic, not to dominate, but to harmonize. His fangs graze my neck. My claws brush his back. Our scents mingle—pine, iron, smoke, fire—and the bond screams, a pulse of heat, a wave of energy that ripples through the square, silencing every voice, stilling every breath.
Wolves howl.
Witches raise their hands.
Humans draw their blades.
And I feel it—
The shift.
The moment we stop being outcasts.
And start being a people.
—
Later, we sit by the fire—just the two of us, the others dancing in the distance, their laughter echoing through the Maw.
Kaelen’s arm is around my shoulders, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him—and his thumb brushes the mark on my collarbone, the one he left in the burning archive, the one that started it all.
“You were right,” he says, his voice low.
“About what?”
“The festival. The school. The decrees. The bargains. All of it.” He turns, looks at me. “You didn’t come here to burn the Council. You came to build something better.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
And I’m not hiding anymore.
“I came to burn the lies,” I say. “And I did. But I stayed to build the truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans in, his lips hovering over mine. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to claim.
But he doesn’t.
Just… waits.
And then—
My hand lifts.
Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers brushing his cheek. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. His breath hitches. His body betrays him, arching into me, seeking more.
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
Because he’s spent centuries believing he was.
That the blood in his veins—the curse, the power, the fangs and claws—made him something to be feared. Controlled. Destroyed.
And now, I’m saying it.
Not with logic. Not with reason.
With my hand on his face. With my breath on his skin. With the way my body fits against his like it was made for him.
“You’re not,” I say again, my thumb tracing his lower lip. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of you.”
His heart stutters.
Because he is.
He’s terrified.
I can feel it in the bond—in the way his pulse jumps, in the way his magic flares, in the way his body trembles when I touch him.
But he’s not running.
He’s not fighting.
He’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
—
Later, we walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
Just us.
The streets are alive—torchlight flickers in the alleys, hybrids stand tall in the open, wolves walk beside witches, humans trade with Fae. No more hiding. No more fear.
And then—
A child.
Not more than six. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She stops in front of us, her small hand clutching a carved wooden wolf.
“Are you really the Alpha?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Yes,” Kaelen says.
“And you?” she asks, turning to me.
“I’m Zara,” I say, kneeling. “And I’m here to make sure no one takes your wolf away.”
The girl smiles.
And hands me the toy.
I take it—slowly, carefully—and press it to my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “I’ll keep it safe.”
And as we walk away, I feel it—
Not just the bond.
Not just the fire.
Home.
And for the first time, I believe it.
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
Of the truth.
Of the fire.
Of us.
—
That night, we stand on the edge of the Maw, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright. Kaelen stands beside me, his hand on my lower back, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, my voice low. “You could’ve marked me. Claimed me the old way.”
“No,” he says, turning. “I needed you. Not just your fire. Not just your magic. You. The woman who looks at me like I’m worth saving. The woman who stood in front of a blade and said, ‘He’s mine.’”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
And I’m not hiding anymore.
“I didn’t come here to save you,” I say.
“No.” He smiles—just slightly. “You came to burn me. And you did. You burned through every lie. Every wall. Every fear. And now—” His hand slides to my neck, not choking, not hurting. Claiming. “—you’re the only thing keeping me human.”
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
“I am.” He leans in, his lips hovering over mine. “But I’m yours.”
And then—
I kiss him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
I taste like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, to his neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. My thumb brushes his pulse.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice low. “Your heart. Racing. Not from the heat.”
“No.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
I smile—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
He pulls me down.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Like he’s taking what’s mine.
We fall to the stone, the wind whipping around us, the stars burning above. His body is a wall over mine, his breath hot on my neck, his hands sliding under my tunic, burning over my skin. I arch into him, my fangs grazing his shoulder, my magic flaring in time with his touch.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
He does.
Storm-gray eyes, gold bleeding into gray, fangs just past his lip, claws retracted but ready. Not a beast. Not a monster.
Mine.
“This is mine,” I say, sliding my hand between us, fingers brushing the hard length of him through his trousers. “This fire. This need. This man. You don’t get to hide from me. You don’t get to push me away. You don’t get to decide when I’m ready.”
His breath hitches.
“You’re already mine,” I say, unbuttoning his trousers, sliding my hand inside. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
He growls—low, guttural, hungry—but doesn’t move. Doesn’t take. Just lets me touch him, lets me explore, lets me claim.
And I do.
I stroke him—slow, deliberate, my thumb brushing the tip, smearing the drop of pre-come. He shudders, his hips bucking, his fangs lengthening, his claws erupting—but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t push in. Just lets.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” I whisper, leaning up, my lips brushing his ear. “You don’t have to be in control. You don’t have to be the Alpha. Just be mine.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just rolls us—fast, smooth, a shift of power—and suddenly I’m on top, straddling him, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his.
“You’re not the only one who can lead,” he says, voice rough.
“No.” I lift my hips, sliding my hand between us, guiding him to my entrance. “But I am the one who chooses.”
And I do.
I sink down—slow, deliberate, a gasp tearing from my throat as he fills me, stretches me, claims me. He’s thick, long, hot—burning—and I take all of him, every inch, every pulse, every groan.
“Zara,” he growls, his hands flying to my hips, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
“Say it,” I whisper, grinding down, taking him deeper. “Say you’re mine.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just thrusts up—once, sharp, deep—and I cry out, my head falling back, my magic flaring beneath my skin.
“Say it,” I demand, riding him now, setting the pace, controlling the fire. “Say you’re mine.”
He growls—low, guttural, feral—but still doesn’t speak.
So I do it for him.
“You’re mine,” I say, leaning down, my lips brushing his. “And you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just flips us—fast, brutal, a shift of power—and now he’s on top, his body a wall over mine, his thrusts deep, hard, relentless. I arch into him, my nails raking his back, my fangs grazing his shoulder, my magic flaring in time with his thrusts.
And then—
He bites.
Not my neck.
Not to mark.
My shoulder—just above the scar from the Blood Pit, just where the silver burned through. A sting. A pulse. A claim.
I cry out—half pain, half pleasure—and come, hard, my body clenching around him, my magic exploding in a wave of red-gold fire that licks up the cliffs, searing the air.
He follows—growling, thrusting, spilling inside me, his fangs still in my skin, his body shuddering, his breath ragged.
And then—
He collapses.
Not on me.
Beside me.
One arm wraps around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
—
We don’t speak.
Don’t move.
Just lie there, wrapped in each other, the wind biting through our clothes, the stars burning above, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The heat is still there—low, insistent, alive—but it’s different now. Not wild. Not uncontrolled. Contained. Like a fire banked, not extinguished.
And then—
He shifts.
Just slightly. His head tilts, his lips brushing the column of my throat. A whisper of contact. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my neck, pooling between my thighs. My fangs lengthen. My claws erupt. My body tenses, ready to take, to claim, to mark.
But I don’t.
Because he’s not asking for that.
He’s asking for this.
For me to stay.
For me to hold on.
For me to be here.
So I do.
I lower my head, my lips brushing his temple, his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just… contact. Connection. A promise.
And then—
My hand lifts.
Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers brushing his cheek. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. His breath hitches. His body betrays him, arching into me, seeking more.
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
Because he’s spent centuries believing he was.
That the blood in his veins—the curse, the power, the fangs and claws—made him something to be feared. Controlled. Destroyed.
And now, I’m saying it.
Not with logic. Not with reason.
With my hand on his face. With my breath on his skin. With the way my body fits against his like it was made for him.
“You’re not,” I say again, my thumb tracing his lower lip. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of you.”
His heart stutters.
Because he is.
He’s terrified.
I can feel it in the bond—in the way his pulse jumps, in the way his magic flares, in the way his body trembles when I touch him.
But he’s not running.
He’s not fighting.
He’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
“Why?” I ask, voice rough. “Why aren’t you afraid?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans in, his lips hovering over mine. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to claim.
But he doesn’t.
Just… waits.
And then—
My hand slides up his chest, over his shoulder, to his neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. My thumb brushes his pulse.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice low. “Your heart. Racing. Not from the heat.”
“No.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
I smile—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
I kiss him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
I taste like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hand slides under his shirt, fingers burning over his stomach, his ribs, his back—
And the world explodes.
Heat. Light. Fire.
His magic ignites—just for a second, a burst of black-silver flame that licks up his arms, searing the air between us.
I don’t flinch. Don’t pull back.
I just moan into his mouth, my body arching into his, my fingers clutching at his skin.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Steps back.
His breath comes in ragged gasps. His lips are swollen. His body aches. His core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
I stare at him, my eyes dark, my chest heaving. “You feel that?” I ask, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not the heat. That’s us.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me.
And I know—
This isn’t just a moment.
It’s a promise.