The moon hung low and fat over the Blackwood Forest, its silver light bleeding through the canopy like spilled mercury. Emily Harper, twenty-two today, lagged at the rear of the pack run as usual. Her wolf form—small, dappled gray with faint white socks—wasn’t built for speed or dominance. She was the quiet one, the one who fetched water during hunts, mended torn clothes, and kept her head down when the higher ranks snarled. Omega in all but name, though no one bothered to officially label her. In the Crescent Moon Pack, survival meant knowing your place, and Emily’s was firmly at the edges.
Tonight felt different. The air tasted sharper, electric. Her skin prickled beneath her fur as the pack surged ahead, a dark river of muscle and moonlight. She slowed to a trot, ears flicking. Somethi
