POV: Luna Silver
The vault door screeches wider; white-gloved fingers claw at the chip that holds every hope I have.
My mother's ghost-voice fades, leaving me alone with the choice.
I don't get three heartbeats—Ponytail Lady yanks the chip so hard it cuts my palm.
Blood drops sparkle once in the moon-light, then land on the crystal.
The chip flares white-hot.
The lady screams, gloves burning away.
She lets go, stumbling back into the other coats.
Finn shoves the door with all his king-wolf strength; it slams shut, lock spinning.
Silence.
Darkness.
Only the chip's glow and my blood hissing on its surface.
Finn's breathing is ragged.
Milo's tail brushes my ankle, telling me he's still here.
We wait for the next bang, but the iron holds.
For now.
Finn touches my bleeding hand.
"You okay?"
His voice cracks like dry wood.
I nod, though I'm not.
The babies drum inside—fast, scared.
The chip light steadies, drinking my blood, sealing the crack we saw earlier.
A new symbol forms: a tiny moon wrapped by a crown.
Our future, written in my own red ink.
We turn.
The vault is bigger than the school above—rows of stone shelves, scrolls, crystals, old weapons.
Moon-crystals in the ceiling give soft blue light.
At the far end stands a low table shaped like a paw.
A single scroll rests on it, silver edges glowing.
The Law.
We walk between shelves, careful not to touch anything that might bite back.
The air smells of dust and power.
My legs shake; adrenaline drains away, leaving jelly knees.
Finn keeps a hand under my elbow, pretending to guide, really holding me up.
We reach the table.
The scroll is heavier than it looks, as if words have weight.
Finn unrolls it slowly.
Ancient writing covers the hide—some in wolf-print, some in human letters.
I spot the line that doomed me:
"Common wolf who bears the Alpha's young must be cast out."
My stomach twists.
Finn's jaw hardens.
He pulls a crystal pen from a side slot, hands it to me.
"Change it," he says.
"Write what's true."
I touch the pen to hide, but the words won't form.
My hand trembles too much.
Finn covers my fingers with his.
Together we write:
"Love is stronger than old fear.
The Alpha's true mate and cubs stay, always."
The ink glows gold, sinks in, disappears.
The scroll seals itself with a soft snap.
Somewhere above, in the school, bells toll once—deep, final.
The law changed.
Done.
Relief floods me; tears follow.
Finn hugs me sideways, careful of the belly.
Milo wipes his own eyes with chocolate-stained fingers.
For one heartbeat, everything feels perfect.
Then the world tilts.
The vault floor shudders.
Crystals in the ceiling flicker.
A low siren howls—human-made, not wolf.
They're cutting through the iron door with torches.
Finn grabs my wrist.
"Time to go."
We ran back toward the entrance, a scroll tucked under his arm.
A side corridor appears we didn't see before—marked by glowing pawprints.
Emergency exit, maybe.
We follow.
The tunnel slopes up, cold wind biting our faces.
We burst out through a hatch hidden behind the school dumpsters.
Night air tastes of freedom and diesel.
Sirens still wail inside the building; lights flash in every window.
We duck low, race across the soccer field into shadow woods.
No one chases yet.
We slow, catching breath.
Finn's paw finds mine.
"We did it," he whispers, eyes shining.
I want to answer, but cramps hit again—sharp, different this time.
The babies are shifting, reacting to the law change, to the chip's new blood-bond.
I doubled over.
Finn catches me.
"We need the healer den again."
I shake my head.
"Too far.
Babies…coming…soon."
Truth tastes like metal.
Milo's ears swivel.
"Car or cave?"
Before we decide, headlights sweep the tree line—snow-cats returning, lots of them.
Engines growl, spreading out to search.
Fini pulls me deeper into the pines.
We find a hollow under a fallen log, crawl inside.
The space is tight, smelling of earth and sap.
Milo covers the opening with loose branches, then squeezes in beside us.
We wait, listening.
Engines circle, circle, then fade, hunting farther west.
Silence returns except for my ragged breath.
Finn unwraps the scroll, touches the new words we wrote.
"It's real," he murmurs, wondering in his voice.
"The pack is safe now."
I want to believe him, but pain spikes again.
I clutch the chip in my pocket; it pulses steady, keeping rhythm with my heart.
Finn presses his forehead to mine.
"Hang on, moon-girl.
Daybreak soon, then we move."
I nod, eyes closing, trying to slow my breath, trying to slow time.
The baby was quiet, listening to his heartbeat against mine.
For a moment the world is only our breath and the scent of pine.
Then a branch cracks outside—too soft for the engine, too heavy for the wind.
Finn's head snaps up.
Milo peeks through the leaves.
His eyes go huge.
He signs with a quick paw: two legs, quiet, sniffing the ground—tracking dog, maybe wolf, maybe worse.
The crack comes again, closer.
A low voice drifts in, almost gentle:
"Little king, little moon, I know you're tired.
Come out, and no one gets hurt."
I know that voice—smooth, calm, always smiling.
But it can't be.
Vex was stripped of his wolf, locked away.
Yet here he is, scenting us in the dark, sounding whole, sounding hungry.
Finn's fangs drop.
My hand finds his arm, squeezing once: wait.
We don't breathe.
Twigs brush the log above us—someone settling, listening.
Vex hums an old lullaby my mother used to sing.
The tune slides under my skin, loosening my joints, making me want to crawl out, give up.
Finn feels it too; his eyes glaze for a heartbeat.
Milo stuffs his tail in his own mouth to keep from chattering.
The humming stops.
Quiet.
Then a soft scratch on the wood above our heads—claws, not human.
He's shifted somehow.
He's a wolf again.
A single drop of something wet leaks through a knothole and lands on my cheek—cold, metallic, smelling of poisoned moon juice.
Wherever Vex touched the log, the bark turns gray, crumbles to dust.
The rot spreads slowly, silently, eating our roof.
Finn's voice is barely wind: "On my move, we bolt."
I grip his sleeve, nodding.
Milo ready, muscles coiled.
The rot reaches the inside; splinters fall on my hair.
Vex's voice drops to a whisper inches above us:
"Time's up, little moon.
Your babies sing to me.
Let them out."
The log cracks—loud as a gunshot in the quiet woods.
Finn shoves me forward, Milo bursts right, we scramble out the far side—
And freeze.
Vex stands in full wolf form, bigger than before, fur black as oil, eyes glowing red.
Behind him, lined between the pines, wait six more wolves—strangers, eyes same red, mouths dripping foam.
They're not packed.
They're something new, something wrong.
Vex smiles, fangs long as darts.
"Thank you for opening the vault, pups.
Now the real law begins."
And the red wolves step forward, forming a circle that closes like teeth.