Long before the stars whispered secrets to the trees, long before the wind carried omens through the branches of Veilwood, two tribes of wolf-blooded kin stood locked in age-old rivalry. The Howlspire Kin, led by the proud and unyielding Tharok Bloodclaw, and the fierce Ashmaw Pack, ruled by the relentless Ravik Stonehide, had long clawed and snarled for dominance — two alphas beneath the same moon.

Yet even the fiercest of wolves know to bow before the divine.

Above them loomed Nyxara, the Celestial Huntress, Goddess of stars, of fate, and of the moon’s silver song. It is said that once every cycle of the Bloodmoon, Nyxara’s voice echoes across the skies in a single, ethereal howl. A sound that marks the thinning of veils, when fate may shift, when blessings or curses are sown in silence.

Every ten winters, when the Bloodmoon paints the sky with crimson fire, the tribes gather beneath the ancient boughs of Veilwood, where the sacred Moonwell of Nyxara waits, still and shimmering. The custom is as old as the trees: the chieftains and their heirs must drink from the well, offering themselves to Nyxara’s judgment. If they are found worthy, prosperity blesses their kin until the next Bloodmoon.

This year, Tharok was the first to arrive, his powerful frame cloaked in furs kissed by frost. Beside him walked Maela, his mate, cradling in her arms their tiny daughter, a bright-eyed child of three summers. Her laughter was a melody that softened even Tharok’s stone-hardened heart.

Moments later, the hush of the forest broke again. From the shadows emerged Ravik, flanked by his stern wife Varri, and their son Korvak, already eight and proud-eyed, bearing the promise of a warrior in his stride.

The two chieftains stood before the Moonwell, twin pillars of strength, eyeing one another with the heat of long-brewing tension. “Ravik,” Tharok intoned with a slow, deliberate nod. “Tharok,” Ravik returned, voice gruff as gravel. When Tharok stepped forward, hand outstretched to draw from the waters first, Ravik growled, “Hold. Why should your kin taste Nyxara’s blessing before mine?”

Tharok’s eyes flared with challenge, but Maela, ever the moonlight to his flame, pressed a gentle hand to his chest. “Husband,” she whispered, “It is our daughter’s first Bloodmoon. Do not let old grudges stain the sacred.” Calming, Tharok lifted his daughter in his arms and set her gently at the Moonwell’s edge. “Drink, my little flower,” he murmured, “and may Nyxara guide your path with light.” With a giggle, the child dipped her tiny hands into the shimmering waters.

But just as the ripples faded, Korvak stormed forward, face burning with jealous pride. With barely a word, he thrust his own hands into the well, lifting the water to his lips in defiance, his eyes never leaving the girl. Then, the Bloodmoon rose high, casting its eerie red glow. The well glimmered like living fire, and in that moment, a gasp swept through the gathered kin.

Twin beams of crimson moonlight fell from the heavens, striking the foreheads of the girl and Korvak. A shooting star tore across the sky like a blade of light. The forest held its breath. And then, clouds swallowed the moon whole. The light vanished. Chaos rippled through the clearing. Tharok snatched his daughter into his arms. “Hush, little flower petal,” he whispered urgently, shielding her.

Ravik, face pale with unspoken dread, seized his son. “Korvak. Come,” he barked, but Varri was quicker, gathering the boy protectively into her arms.

The two chiefs exchanged a single glance, not one of hostility, but of shared, haunted understanding. They turned back to the well and drank, as did their wives. Then Tharok spoke in the voice of command. “We do not know if this is a blessing...or a curse. We cannot risk the fate of our tribes.”

“Then we keep them apart,” Ravik answered. “Whatever touched them this night... it must not be awakened.”

Thus, the pact was forged, unspoken, sacred, and buried beneath sixteen winters of silence.

Sixteen Years Later

The girl grew radiant beneath the Howlspire's watchful gaze, a daughter of the moon, beloved and bright. The memory of the Bloodmoon faded, hidden from her, locked away in the minds of her parents. She had no memory of Korvak, or the touch of fate that once marked her.

Korvak, now twenty-four, had become the Ashmaw's most fearsome hunter. His every kill was a tale in itself, and he wore his strength like a second skin. Though he remembered the strange night, his parents had convinced him it was nothing but a dream, the trick of starlight on a child’s overactive mind.

One golden afternoon, beneath the whispering canopies of Veilwood, Tharok was gathering fire wood for the village campfire, Maela was inside the tent, combing out spurs from her youngest child's tail as he fell into a prickle bush, the girl was just outside her family's tent, cutting up deer meat when her eyes caught a flash of white, a rabbit, glowing like a ghost, weaving through the underbrush with unnatural grace.