THE MOONDREAMERS
Long after the Song of All Moons faded from the skies, it lingered in the bones of the world.
The Third Moon hovered gently beside its older sisters, a permanent crescent of pale blue that shimmered like breath over ice. It did not glow with dominance or brilliance, but with softness. Steady. Curious. Awake.
And from it came dreams.
Not nightmares.
Not visions.
Dreams that taught. That healed. That called.
Wolves everywhere began to experience them—silent stories told in sleep, shared across minds and packs, forming a network of memory unlike anything seen before.
And in the center of this new dreaming world, a group began to form.
They called themselves the Moondreamers.
The first was Nira.
A girl born to the snow-walkers of the Frosted Steppes, she had never spoken a word aloud. But in her dreams, she sang in languages older than the stars. Her people followed her not because she commanded—but because her sleep-song guided them across the most dangerous terrain with impossible accuracy.
She found her way to Silvercrest without a single escort.
Without a word.
The second was Solan, born in the Dune Canyons. At night, he painted his dreams with silver dye and ash, sketching elaborate images of places no one knew… until they found them. Every dream he painted became a destination.
The third was Vei, a storm child born during a triple eclipse. She dreamt while awake, her eyes glowing with moonsight. She could predict change—not events, but emotional tides. She guided entire villages through grief just by being near.
They were joined by many others.
All of them dreamers.
All of them moon-touched.
And Kirea, still living among the quiet roots of the world, took notice.
She did not summon them.
She simply opened a circle.
And the Moondreamers stepped in.
They gathered at the Shaded Glade, a forest clearing untouched by politics or past. Kirea watched them as they arrived—packs from across the realms, eyes glowing faintly with shared stories.
Some could dreamwalk.
Others could record dreams as song, as wind, as sculpture.
And one—just one—could sleep for a second and glimpse the next century.
Their gifts were vast.
But their purpose remained uncertain.
Until the sky broke.
—
It happened quietly.
A ripple.
A sudden, sharp silence in the dreams.
Then screams.
Across the world, wolves woke in panic. Dreams once gentle turned violent, fractured. Whole territories stopped sleeping.
The moons dimmed.
And the Moondreamers knew:
Something had entered the Song.
Something uninvited.
Kirea met with them in the Glade.
"The dream is sick," Vei said. "Something is poisoning it."
"Not with force," Solan added. "With emptiness."
Nira pointed to the third moon, its blue glow flickering.
It was fading.
Not dying.
Forgetting.
Kirea unrolled her oldest map. "Then we go inside the dream."
"Is that possible?" someone asked.
She met their gaze. "Only if we go together."
__
They formed a ring.
Thirty strong.
Dreamers, weavers, memory walkers.
They sang the Song of All Moons—not aloud, but through breath, pulse, and story.
One by one, they fell asleep.
And entered the Dreaming Deep.
It was not soft.
The Dreaming Deep was jagged.
Dark.
Echoing with fragments of memory and pain.
The moons above were not whole.
They flickered, distorted.
And a shape moved through the dreamspace.
A wolf, but not.
Its body was made of stories never told.
Of regrets.
Of what-ifs and almosts.
It fed on the spaces between dreams.
And it saw them.
The Moondreamers spread out, weaving bridges of thought and shared memory to stay tethered.
Nira sang the song of her people's first fire.
Solan painted the memory of his mother's final smile.
Vei summoned a storm of courage, holding back the entity.
And Kirea reached for the one dream that had always guided her:
Luna's voice.
Soft.
Clear.
"You are the breath between. The moment before the note. The dream before the waking."
Kirea whispered the words.
And the entity screamed.
Because it had no name.
No memory.
No place in the Song.
And Kirea gave it one.
"Be still," she said. "Be seen."
She reached into its chest and wove a dream.
A small one.
A wolf. Sleeping in peace.
It blinked.
And vanished.
The dreamspace shimmered.
Began to heal.
The moons returned.
The scream faded.
And every Moondreamer woke at once.
Breathing.
Crying.
Whole.
__
From that night on, the Song no longer needed singers.
It sang itself.
It moved through the world as wind, as light, as dream.
The Moondreamers became guides.
Ambassadors of sleep.
Guardians of the unseen.
And Kirea? She finally laid down her map.
The world no longer needed it.
Because the map was now inside them all.
The story continued.
And in the distance…
A fourth moon blinked.
Very small.
Very faint.
But new.