The Blood of The Hollow Moon

Seren Veyra didn't sleep that night. Sleep was a luxury she hadn't known since the Hollow Moon began pulsing. She lay on a slab of stone inside the Moonbound den, staring at the ceiling carved with claw marks and old runes. The moss glowed faintly, casting green shadows across her face. Her thoughts were louder than the wind outside, louder than the wolves growling in their dreams. She had broken the Pact. Again. She had entered Thornmere without permission, spoken to a Keeper, and returned with warnings no one wanted to hear. Riven had listened, but only because he feared the Keepers more than he distrusted her. The others-her packmates, her blood-had turned their backs. They didn't understand what it meant to be born during the Hollow Moon. They didn't understand what it meant to be Threadless. She sat up, the pendant around her neck still warm. It hadn't cooled since the Keeper appeared. That wasn't normal. It was forged from moonstone and silver, enchanted by the witches to detect shifts in the Drift. It should have faded by now. But it pulsed, like the moon itself, like something inside her was echoing the rhythm of the sky. She stood and walked to the edge of the den, where the wind howled through the cliffs. Below, the Vale of Echoes shimmered in silver mist. Beyond that, the Citadel of Ash stood like a blade against the horizon. She had never been inside. Only the Threaded were allowed to enter freely. The rest needed permission, and Seren had never been granted any. She was born without a thread. Every citizen of Noctarion was born with one-a shimmering strand of magic woven into their soul, connecting them to the timeline, to the dominions, to the laws of balance. Threads determined fate, power, and place. Witches could read them. Vampires could taste them. Werewolves could feel them. But Seren had none. She was an anomaly. A fracture. A threat. The Keeper had said the Hollow Moon was calling to its blood. What did that mean? Was she its blood? Was that why she could feel the Drift more strongly than others? Was that why her emotions sometimes triggered magic she couldn't control? She clenched her fists. She needed answers. She turned back into the den and found Riven sharpening his claws against a slab of obsidian. He looked up, his amber eyes narrowing. "You're still awake," he said. "So are you." He grunted. "Couldn't sleep. The moon's too loud." Seren nodded. "It's getting worse." Riven stopped sharpening. "You really think it's waking?" "I know it is." He studied her for a moment. "Then you need to go to the Citadel." "I told you that." "I know. I just didn't think you'd actually try." "I have to." Riven stood and walked over to a shelf carved into the stone wall. He pulled out a satchel and tossed it to her. "You'll need supplies. Food. Water. A blade." Seren caught it. "You're helping me?" "I'm not stupid. If the Hollow Moon wakes, we're all dead. You're the only one who seems to know what's coming." She nodded. "Thank you." He hesitated. "Don't thank me yet. You'll have to pass through the Maw's Edge." Seren froze. "The Maw?" Riven nodded. "It's the fastest way to the Citadel. But it's dangerous. The Threadless live there." Seren's heart pounded. "I thought the Threadless were exiled." "They were. But they didn't die. They built a settlement near the Maw. They call it Hollowrest." Seren had heard whispers of Hollowrest. A place where the forgotten lived. Where those without threads gathered. Where magic twisted and time bent. It was a myth. A warning. A curse. "I'll go," she said. Riven looked at her for a long moment. "You're not afraid?" "I'm always afraid," she said. "But I'm tired of pretending I'm not." He nodded. "Then go. Before the moon pulses again." Seren left the den before dawn, the satchel slung over her shoulder, the pendant burning against her chest. The wind was colder now, sharper. The Drift was thick with fear. Something was coming. Something old. Something hungry. She moved quickly through the Vale, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the patrols of Chron