The birthing fire crackled low, its embers matching the fever in my veins. Outside, snow fell in thick silence, burying the cabin—and my screams—from the world. I clutched the torn remains of his cloak, the one he left behind when he walked out, voice cold: 'A true Alpha doesn’t share his throne with a weeping Luna.'

But I wasn’t weeping. I was roaring. With every contraction, something deeper than pain surged—ancient, dark, awakened. My claws tore the floorboards as my body split open, not just for the child, but for the truth: my bloodline didn’t end with submission. It began with conquest.

When the first cry pierced the night, I didn’t cradle my daughter. I raised her into the storm-lit sky, howling a name long forgotten—our true surname, etched in Eclipse runes. The wolves answered. Not as servants. As kin.

Now, they’re coming. I smell their frostbitten breath on the wind. Hunters sent by him. And I have three choices: vanish into the wilds with my child, fight with tooth and flame, or send a message written in their blood.