Far from the quiet glow of the orphanage, beyond the woods and the frozen fields, the night was alive with movement.
The figure ran swiftly through the undergrowth—cloak whipping behind him, boots pounding over frost-bitten earth. The moon, full and low in the sky, cast silver light through the bare trees, painting the landscape in sharp, cold contrast.
Behind him, they were closing in.
The howls came again—closer this time. Fierce. Angry. Not the wild cry of ordinary wolves, but something far more ancient… and far more intelligent.
He didn't slow.
Not until they surrounded him.
In a blur of movement and snarls, they leapt from the shadows—tall, half-human beasts with glowing eyes, elongated limbs, and mouths lined with teeth too sharp to be natural. Fur covered their arms and torsos, but they stood upright like men—powerful and unnatural under the silver moonlight.
The man stopped, chest heaving, cloak torn at the edges.
One of the creatures stepped forward—taller than the rest, its eyes burning gold.
"You think you can hide her from us?" the werewolf growled, voice layered with a low, guttural snarl. "We felt the mark the moment she was born."
The man said nothing.
Another stepped closer, its claws twitching. "Where is the child?"
"She's not yours," the man said, voice quiet but firm.
"You had no right to take her!" the first wolf roared, lunging forward. He stopped just short of striking, breath hot and misting in the air. "She belongs to the bloodline."
"She belongs to no one," the man snapped, suddenly fierce. "Not anymore."
For a long moment, silence fell.
The wolves snarled softly among themselves, pacing, circling.
"She is dangerous," said one. "Too young to understand what she is. But it will wake. And when it does—"
"I know," the man whispered, his eyes dark with grief. "That's why I left her where your kind would never think to look."
The alpha stepped closer, nostrils flaring. "You can't protect her from what she is. No one can."
"I'm not trying to protect her," the man said, lowering his hood. His face was worn, haunted. "I'm giving her a chance."
The werewolves watched him in silence.
Then, slowly, the alpha turned away, his voice low and grim. "The moon remembers its own. And one day… so will she."
With a flick of his clawed hand, the pack disappeared into the trees, shadows melting into shadows.
The man stood alone, breath still heavy in the cold night air.
He looked back toward the direction of the orphanage, where the faintest glow still burned on the horizon.
"I'm sorry, little one"
The man stood still for a moment longer, eyes on the faint glow in the far distance.
She was safe now. Hidden.
And they would never find her.
He turned to leave, his breath rising in soft plumes in the cold night air.
But the silence broke.
A low growl.
Too late, he realized the trees hadn't swallowed the wolves after all. They had circled back—waiting in the shadows. Watching.
From the brush, fur and fang emerged once more.
"You really thought we'd let you walk away?" the alpha snarled, voice rough and venom-laced.
The man stood tall, even as blood from earlier scratches trickled down his side. "I gave her a chance. That's more than any of you would."
"You defied the council. Protected the abomination."
"She's a child!" he shouted. "She's done nothing wrong. Her blood isn't a crime."
The wolves began circling him again, their claws crunching the snow.
"Blood is everything," another growled. "Hers is cursed. Just like the one who left her breathing."
The alpha stepped forward, eyes burning. "You were one of us. Now you're nothing. A traitor. A coward. And a fool."
"I'd rather die a traitor than live as a butcher," the man spat.
The alpha let out a low, mocking snarl. "Then die you shall."
They lunged.
The man fought—his silver blade gleaming, striking true more than once. A wolf yelped and fell back, injured. But there were too many. They came from every side, claws slashing, teeth tearing.
He was fast. Skilled.
But he was one.
And they were a pack.
Within minutes, he dropped to one knee, blood soaking into the snow around him. Breathing ragged. Vision blurred.
The alpha approached again, looming over him.
"Did you think hiding her would change her fate?" he sneered.
"I didn't hide her to change her fate…" the man gasped. "…I hid her… to give her one."
The alpha struck him down with a final blow—fast, brutal, and without honor.
Then they stood over his body, panting.
"Did he say where she is?" one of the younger wolves asked.
"No," the alpha muttered, wiping blood from his claws. "He died with the secret."
A growl of frustration rumbled through the group.
"Search the area," the alpha ordered. "But it's no use. He covered her trail too well."
"And if we never find her?" another wolf asked.
The alpha's eyes narrowed, flashing gold beneath the moon. "Then let the moon watch her. One day… she'll come to us. They always do."
Far from the dark forest where blood stained the snow and the moon bore silent witness, the world was calm again.
Inside the old stone orphanage, the fire crackled quietly in the hearth. The room was wrapped in soft shadows and flickering amber light. All was still.
Until the baby stirred.
At first, just a whimper.
Then a sudden, piercing cry broke the silence.
Miss Hopkins, who had just finished cleaning the empty bottle and was folding a blanket in the kitchen, froze. She didn't wait to hear it again—she dropped the cloth and rushed down the hall, her footsteps echoing lightly on the wooden floors.
When she reached the nursery, the child was crying with surprising strength for someone so small—her tiny face red and scrunched, her arms flailing beneath the blanket.
"Oh, sweetheart," Miss Hopkins breathed, crossing the room in an instant. She scooped the baby into her arms, holding her close to her chest.
"There, now, it's all right… shhh…"
She rocked gently, whispering soothing nonsense, patting the baby's back with one hand. But the child's wails didn't stop. Her little body trembled—not like she was cold, but like something had startled her awake from deep within.
"Poor little lamb…" Miss Hopkins murmured, her voice trembling slightly too. "You must've had a terrible dream."
She sat in the rocking chair by the fire, cradling the baby gently, swaying back and forth. The baby's cries softened but didn't fade completely—tiny gasps still shook her, her little fingers clinging tightly to Miss Hopkins's sleeve.
"I've got you now," she whispered. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Not while I'm here."
Miss Hopkins pressed a kiss to the baby's soft forehead. She was still cool to the touch, and that strange chill lingered—one that no fire seemed to melt. But Miss Hopkins said nothing of it.
She simply held her closer.
And slowly, the baby quieted.
Her breathing steadied. Her grip relaxed. Her eyes, glassy and distant only moments ago, blinked once... then closed.
As she drifted back to sleep, a single tear slid down her cheek.
Miss Hopkins wiped it away with her thumb.
"Who are you, little one?" she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. "And what have you been through…?"
Outside, the wind had picked up
But inside the nursery , beneath the fires warm glow , the rocking chair creaked gently, carrying them both into a fragile peace
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