Moonfire: The Goddess’s Bride

The night she was born, the moon bled.

High above the dense canopy of the forest, the full moon stood veiled in shadow, slowly eclipsed by the Earth’s creeping hunger. Where once it had glowed silver and proud, it now glimmered red—dusky and muted like a wound in the sky. Elders whispered of omens. Wolves did not howl. Not a single one.

Even the air felt wrong. The wind had died hours before, and the torches outside the threshold barely flickered. Smoke coiled in slow spirals, reluctant to rise. Every beast in the woods had gone quiet, as though the world itself held its breath.

And in the heart of the Beta’s house, a different silence reigned.

The birthing chamber was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of firelight and the trembling glow of lanterns. The air was thick with sweat and herbs, the scent of iron clinging like mist. Lyssa lay back on the blood-streaked bedding, her body limp, her face pale and beautiful and exhausted. The midwives worked quickly, speaking in whispers, hands practiced and precise, but even they could feel it—that this was not a birth like any other.

Then the cry came.

High, piercing, far too loud for such a small chest to contain. It echoed through the room, sharp as a hawk’s scream, and everyone stopped.

One midwife stumbled backward, clutching her heart. Another dropped the cloth she was holding.

The child’s skin shimmered in the firelight. It wasn’t blood or sweat or the illusion caused by the dim light. It gleamed faintly, unnaturally, traced with threads of silver gliding beneath the surface, like veins of light dancing across her tiny hands. Along her temples, that same silver pooled beneath her skin, glowing softly as if something divine stirred just beneath the surface.

“The Moon has touched her,” one of the midwives whispered, eyes wide with awe.

“The Goddess has chosen her,” another breathed.

A ripple of reverence passed through the room. Knees bent. Heads bowed. But not all gestures were born of awe. In the shadows of the room, mutters bloomed.

One of the younger midwives muttered under her breath, “They say eclipse-born children are cursed.”

Another frowned. “Or destined.”

“She’s glowing,” someone whispered. “No child should carry that light.”

“We should call the Elders.”

“What if it’s not a blessing?”

Before the mutterings could grow into something louder, the child opened her eyes.

It was like a spell unraveling in the air.

Newborns weren’t supposed to look like that. They weren’t supposed to focus, to see. But this girl did. Her eyes, pale gray and strange, locked onto the faces around her with piercing, unnatural clarity. And then—just for a heartbeat—they flared.

Silver.

Not reflected light. Not a trick of the lanterns. They shone, molten and searing like moonlight passed through flame.

Gasps swept the room. One of the midwives dropped to her knees again, now shaking.

The doors opened then, and the Elders entered.

Seven of them, clad in robes of forest-green and moon-white, every hem embroidered with ancient glyphs that hadn’t been spoken aloud in a hundred years. They glided silently into the chamber, their presence heavier than stone. None of them looked at Lyssa. None of them asked if the birth had gone well. They surrounded the child instead, forming a loose circle around the bed, and began to murmur the old rite.

The language was forgotten by most, but the rhythm was unmistakable. Sacred. Unchanging. It wrapped around the room like smoke, slow and deliberate.

The eldest among them, a man whose eyes had seen five Alphas crowned and three laid to rest, stepped forward. He raised his hand above the newborn’s brow and spoke in the common tongue—his voice low, yet somehow cutting through the thick silence:

“Born with the Moon in her blood,

And the Goddess in her eyes,

She shall awaken at the turning of her wolf,

And crown the Alpha’s line with might.

Yet beware, for the same light that blesses

Can sear the pack to ash.”

The room fell still again.

The eldest lowered his hand and nodded once, final. “She is the Moonblooded.”

A few others echoed the title in hushed unison. “The Moonblooded child…”

Then, as if summoned by the weight of the words, the doors swung open once more—and this time, it was not robes and ritual that entered, but power.

Alpha Magnus strode in without announcement. He did not bow. He did not hesitate. He looked once at the baby and smiled.

It was not a warm smile.

His gaze slid past Lyssa entirely as if she were furniture, and fixed itself on Raymond, who stood at the edge of the chamber in silence.

“The highest honor, Beta,” Magnus declared, clapping a heavy hand on Raymond’s shoulder. “The Moon Goddess herself has blessed your house.”

Raymond bowed stiffly, though his shoulders tightened at the words.

Magnus turned back toward the child, who now rested against Lyssa’s chest. His eyes narrowed. Calculating.

“She’ll make a perfect mate for my son,” he added casually. “Aeron will need a strong Luna. And this girl—” his lip curled faintly, “—is touched by prophecy. The match is ideal.”

Lyssa’s arms tightened instinctively around her daughter. She sat up straighter, despite the pain, and spoke before she could stop herself. “She’s just been born, my Alpha. It’s… too soon to speak of such things.”

The moment the words left her mouth, the temperature in the room dropped.

Magnus turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were cold, his voice colder still. “Too soon to accept the will of the Goddess?”

“No—of course not, but—”

“She will be raised properly,” Magnus interrupted, his attention already turning back to the Elders. “You will ensure it. She must be obedient. Polished. Prepared. My heir deserves only the best.”

Then, as if dismissing Lyssa entirely, he turned once more to Raymond and said with quiet disdain, “Control your woman. She forgets her place.”

Lyssa’s jaw trembled. She took a breath, then forced out, “Forgive me, Alpha. But—”

“Don’t test my patience,” Magnus snapped. His voice was soft, but the warning in it was unmistakable. “If you wish to see your daughter grow up, you’ll keep your tongue where it belongs.”

He turned and left, robes sweeping behind him like storm clouds. The Elders followed without a word.

Only when the chamber door closed behind them did Lyssa move.

She clutched her daughter tighter to her chest, curling her body protectively around the small, warm weight nestled against her heart. Her lips trembled against the downy-soft hair at the crown of her baby’s head.

“You are mine,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No matter what they say. No matter what they do. You are mine. And I will love you like no one ever could.”

But even as she whispered those words, her heart fractured. Because deep down, she already knew—they would come for her. They would groom her. Shape her. Strip her of what made her human and mold her into what the prophecy demanded.

Raymond stood nearby, silent and stiff-backed. A coil of unease had begun to knot inside his gut.

Blessing, he thought. Honor is what they call it when they mean to take something from you.

Outside, the moon still hid its face. But within the small glow of that room, under the weight of prophecy and fear, the child slept, curled in her mother’s arms. Peaceful. Quiet.

But already, her fate was not her own.

Before she had even drawn her second breath, the world had carved her destiny in stone.

Moonblooded child.

Bride to the Alpha’s heir.

Claimed by the Goddess.

Bound to a path she could neither understand nor escape.

And nothing would ever be the same again.