Throughout the past few centuries of lycan history, the most common fairytale to recite for local pups growing up is the story of Luna.

Luna.

Goddess of the Moon. Mother of Lycanthropes. The Judge of Fate.

It is said that after bringing life to their first ancestors, she took to the stars to overlook her canine subjects. It is rumored that she turned into the moon herself and beams down on them with an otherworldly glow every night, the pale yellow hues of her magical existence shining down on them and imbuing them with hopes for better days.

She is ever so omniscient, the true ruler of their mortal realm, the matchmaker of love and mates herself. Even outside of bedtime stories, she can be seen in religious altars and temples, in shrines and prayers. Her name is spoken by priests, expressed in modern day curses, written in all their textbooks.

The statues and illustrations that project her image are tall and regal, depicting a face that's fair and sharp. High cheekbones and an upturned nose are carved into stone and paper alike. Her curvy hourglass frame is often fitted in a flowing white gown. Long blonde hair halts at her waist and piercing blue eyes stare from beyond.

Nowadays, she is but a distant myth to her people. Some still believe in her, especially the priests that are spiritually connected to her as divine messengers. Many, however, simply think of her as a phenomenon of the past, a one-shot wonder that's no longer of this world.

Little does anyone realize that she's still real and a lot closer than they think. While the origins of how she came to create them rings true, the rumors about her living among the stars and becoming the moon is not accurate.

In actuality, she lives in an invisible void that she had conjured up herself within the sky. She floats above them all, for she never left for something as far away as space in the first place.

In the present day, Luna remains shrouded in the clouds and up in her domain, having basked in the peace that comes with solitude for over a century now. She has, in fact, not turned into a shiny and intergalactic ball that emerges every nightfall, though she is connected to the moon in ways deeper than most.

She's perched on top of her glass throne in a white cloak, peering into a crystal ball in one hand while flipping through a floating journal entry in the other.

As the swirling mist within her crystal ball parts ways to show a picture, it reveals the face of Alpha Cyrus Pierce from the Blood Moon Pack.

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Thankfully, Cyrus's eyesight makes a full recovery by the time he and the rest of his Blood Moon comrades retreat to their pack. His gaping stab wound has already closed up too, wisps of white smoke escaping from his back.

Ultimately, he's fine. The only way to truly bypass a werewolf's regenerative abilities is with silver—their one fatal weakness. A rare element to discover and manufacture within Blood Moon territory.

And while this time he's unscathed, the last time he and Jax had crossed paths, a silver dagger had been in the alpha's possession, hence the scars across Cyrus's arms and face.

Back then, he was able to hurl the silver dagger far into the ocean in an act of spite. Deep into mermaid territory, where it would never be seen in the light of day again. Because everyone knows not to fuck with the mermaids. As much as werewolves rule over these lands, those fish fuckers own the seas.

Using silver as a weapon, as a werewolf of all people, is a crime. Jax's entire existence goes against everything that he believes in.

Being a werewolf is about thriving off your innate strengths, not relying on other sources of external bullshit, like silver and weapons, to get by. If you can't fight without fangs and fists, if you aren't naturally blessed in the role you're born into, then you don't deserve to be alive.

That's the Blood Moon way. Survival of the fittest. This is why their pack reigns superior while Grave Shadow is a disgrace to their own kind. Those traitors don't deserve their place in life.

Luna certainly wouldn't condone their existence.

"Yo, Cyrus!" Ram, his second-in-command and right-hand man, jogs up to match his pace. Tufts of his orange hair stick up at the ends after tonight's wild encounter with the vampires. "After you meet up with Grace, d'ya wanna chop some wood for the bonfire we're supposed to set up tonight before dinner?"

They're both walking inside of their rustic wooden headquarters as they speak, prepared to part ways for their respective duties. As the head alpha of Blood Moon, Cyrus has to ensure that everyone is good and doesn't need anything else from him before retiring for the night. All in a day's work.

"Sure," Cyrus says. "We'll meet up after I swing by the infirmary."

"Oh wait, dude, I think she actually just got done helping out in the kitchen today. Might wanna make sure your girl's in the dining hall first."

Grinning, Ram salutes him goodbye before joining the others down the residence halls. For a moment, Cyrus watches his back shrink in the distance before moving forward.

Must be nice, he thinks to himself. Ram is an alpha too, but not the top alpha like him. There's a big distinction. Cyrus is supposed to be the most alpha out of all the alphas—or whatever that means. And usually, he loves his position, his title, his authority above all others.

But it's little moments like these that Cyrus wishes he could join. He also wants to play cards, drink, gamble, and spar with Ram and the other boys. He likes goofing around for shits and giggles too. Who doesn't?

However, as head alpha, he has an obligation to fulfill.

As he eases through the glossy pine corridors of their headquarters, the rest of his pack members, most of them betas and omegas around these parts, bow their heads down to him every time he passes by. Everyone must bow down when in the presence of Alpha Cyrus Pierce.

"Alpha Cyrus," Calliope, one of the omega servants, greets. "Good evening, sir."

She dips her chin down and avoids his eyes out of respect, for an omega is to never look into the eyes of an alpha without permission. Or at least, that's the rule within the social hierarchy among werewolves.

Cyrus never actually cared for rules like that though. Honestly, he doesn't give a shit if someone like Calliope looks him directly in his eyes, but Mom and the other elders of their pack would whine their asses about 'the right thing to do' if given the chance. They believed in all aspects of tradition, including the power dynamics between alphas, betas, and omegas.

Well, they've managed to keep together this powerhouse of a pack so far. Surely there's some sense to these social customs. One day, he may understand.

"I've finished tidying your and Lady Grace's sleeping quarters," Calliope continues. "I hope you do not mind that the sheets are infused with the scent of jasmine and cherry blossoms, for I'm aware that those are the lady's favorites. It is also said that the smell of jasmine helps promote better sleep, as well as decrease the frequency of any stress–"

"Cool, thanks," he shoots back with eager haste. "I'm sure Grace will love it too."

Again, he genuinely means this, no harm done against Calliope. But sometimes she's too meticulous and wordy. Frankly, he doesn't have enough of an attention span to focus on the little details.

Instead, he tilts his head to the side, switching topics. "Hey, if you've seen Grace around, is she in the dining hall right now or...?"

When Calliope notices his unsure pause of silence tacked at the end, she jumps in to clarify. "Ah, yes, Lady Grace has been expecting your arrival underneath the gazebo outside. I do apologize for the belated message, sir. I should've–"

"It's cool! Thanks for letting me know."

He claps a hand on her shoulder before rushing past. 

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Cyrus would like to think he's endured a lot of shit in his life. Earning the ultimate leadership position in Blood Moon, as the top alpha, meant fighting to the near death with plenty of peers. And that's excluding all of the violent disputes he's already had with shit stains like Jax from Grave Shadow.

A demanding job like this warrants major competition. Just because Dad had been the top dog of their previous generation, that didn't guarantee that Cyrus would be one too as his son. Thankfully, much to Dad's satisfaction at the time, Cyrus won and continued their line of indomitable alpha leaders. He makes his family, the Pierce bloodline, proud.

He has everything he's been working for—all of his life goals fully achieved. He has the ideal life that other guys like Ram can only dream of. All the power, all the respect, all the awe. His word is law.

With all that in mind, why is it that this, talking to his beautiful omega girlfriend, feels like the most challenging obstacle of his entire day? Barely an hour ago, he was stabbed by Jax Sterling after getting snow shoved in his eyes. But this is what finally makes him break out into a cold sweat?

A few years ago, the first time he realized who his fated mate was at eighteen-years-old, he felt an electric current zip up his spine. Reality drifted in slow motion, just like everyone said it would. Everything went shiny and glittery around her in that one moment, like it was supposed to mean something, like it was supposed to last. But then in the next second, in the blink of an eye... nothing.

Even now, as he approaches her under the snowy gazebo with a strained smile on his face, he feels nothing.

"Hey, Grace."

With her knees tucked up to her chest and an open book set to the side, Grace Elsher sits on a block of white concrete, her sock-clad feet dangling over the ground. Today, she's donned in an elegant mint green sweater dress, the oversized sleeves drooping past her wrists. Her hair is mostly let down as well, descending past her neck and shoulder blades in bouncy scarlet waves. An ivory white ribbon is tied to the back of her head and attached to a tiny little braid from behind, her signature accessory.

And as she turns to the side, in response to Cyrus seating himself right next to her, she offers him a small smile, the rosy pink hue to her cheeks rising from her pale skin. Her eyelids flutter open, her lashes full and lush, as she tilts her chin up to reveal radiant gold irises.

Cyrus blinks back.

Nothing.

Just nothing.

"Cyrus, my alpha." Gently, Grace grabs a hold of his cheeks in her soft hands and leans in, inspecting his face. Her gaze wanders down to the rest of his body, examining his arms, his chest, then lastly his back. "It seems that you're okay, but let me still heal where you were hurt."

He tries to dismiss the offer with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Nah, no need. That bastard didn't use silver this time. No scar, see?"

She gravitates over to his backside anyhow, her hands already transferred to where his stab wound was. "Please, Cyrus. Let me double check."

He shrugs. "All right."

With closed eyes, he relaxes to her touch and hears the way that her hands glow with pale blue energy, a low hum of sound vibrating around them. He feels her magical healing hands, radiating with that same pale blue energy he's already seen hundreds of times before, pressing into where he'd been stabbed.

A rush of serenity floods his senses, loosening the tensions from his back muscles. For his fated mate isn't just any regular omega, but also a priest of Luna. All priests of Luna are born with inherent healing abilities drawn from the moon itself. Their healing magic is so powerful that it can even reverse the poisonous effects of silver, though still not the physical scars that come with it.

These scars that Cyrus has from Jax's silver blades—they're forever.

Regardless, a priest of Luna, like Grace, is a huge asset to Blood Moon. Since Grave Shadow often likes to cheat with their silver inventory, werewolves like Grace are, well, a saving grace to their kind.

Once she's done, Cyrus turns around to see her again.

"Thanks."

She nods, then extends her hand out to him after scooping up the book she'd been reading outside. "Let's head back. I should prepare prayers for tonight's dinner."

With that, Cyrus takes her hand and they walk side to side, their fingers intertwined together.

Still nothing.

Just nothing.

Deep down, as he holds onto her hand and gives her another false smile for show, he wonders what is wrong with him.