In order to save the world from eternal night, Red must find a way to unlock the dormant power of the Sun Goddess running through her veins without killing herself and everyone she loves.
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Deep in the charred woods, by the shallow remnants of a smouldering dam, a tan wolf shook the dirt from his coat and swept his tail over his tracks.
The pool was sheltered by a finger of rock that jutted out from the base of the Grey Fist Mountains, pointing straight at the lands of the Blood Moon Pack. There was something accusatory about it, as if the earth itself was laying the blame for the state of the world at Alpha Rogan's feet. The wolf looked up, realising that it was pointing at him, too.
Gordon shivered, despite his thick coat. He was certainly deserving of blame. If Rogan was the head of the beast, Gordon was the hand that enacted its murderous will. For twelve years he had roamed the Wylds, delivering countless children into the waiting maw of the Hidden Vale, slaughtering anyone who dared to stand in his path. While it had all been at the behest of the Blood Moon Alpha, Nya's Chosen, the technicality did little to wring the blood and screams from his memories and scrub the stain from his soul.
Killing, maiming, stealing; it was hardly an honest life, and Gordon could not claim to take pride or enjoyment from the work. If anything, it turned his stomach like bad meat, and he was quick to set it aside whenever possible.
But it was necessary. For his mate, the proud, noble Mysandra, who seemed to Gordon like a reincarnation of the Night Goddess herself. Her hair was an inky slip of the night sky, her eyes the unflinching blue of a summer day. She carried herself like a Queen in waiting, ever so courteous and severe, and commanded her fellow maidens like a seasoned General.
More than once, Gordon had questioned why Nya thought he was worthy of such a woman. The realisation that it was love catching his eye at the Markets, not simply lust, had been so stupefying that it stopped him in his tracks. When his friends followed his line of sight, they'd simply burst into guffaws and clapped him on the back, with such force that it sent Gordon staggering towards the imperious beauty fanning herself at a stall of homemade preserves. Finding one's soul mate was a common occurrence at the Markets, an annual gathering of lycans where neighbouring tribes gathered, bartered, rutted and drank themselves stupid, not entirely in that order. It was a celebratory event, despite its strained undertones; the Alphas of various packs used the opportunity to bicker over territory lines and trade routes.
Gordon's friends hadn't laughed when he'd left hearth and home to follow Mysandra, flouting tradition to spare her the grief of homesickness. It hadn't been an easy transition, sidling into the ranks of the Blood Moon Pack, as many of those arrogant males had coveted Mysandra's hand -- and bed -- for years. Nevertheless, he had endured, realising swiftly that few ever saw the sharp edge of his cunning before it sank into their backs. For Mysandra, he had made himself indispensable to the Blood Moon Alpha, mastering the sliver of Grace he'd been gifted by Nya at birth. For Mysandra, he had climbed the ranks and carved himself a seat, from the flesh and bones of his competitors.
Only now did he understand why Nya had twined their souls. Mysandra was a Queen without a Kingdom, but she could only rise to power in their society through a man. It was her basest need, to lord over others, and only Gordon had the conviction to see her plan come to fruition. It was why he'd begged Red to spare his life, that day when she could have claimed her revenge; Mysandra had been one of her chief tormentors at the Blood Moon village, even more persistant than Bradon and Kadon in crushing her under heel. She had that same instinct for cruelty as a cat, rejecting the runt from its litter; as a duck, pecking out the eyes of a stray duckling that wandered too close to its own brood. Mysandra, in her maternal prowess, could not tolerate the presence of an outsider in her territory.
That outsider saved your life, whispered an insidious voice. It belonged to his conscience, but it had become gradually estranged from him over the years, alienated by every cruel act he committed in the name of love. If she hadn't showed you mercy, Mysandra would be raising your child alone.
Gordon shuddered at the thought. Mysandra was early in her pregnancy, only two months along in the six it took a lycan to bear a baby to term, but she was already struggling with the changes to her body and her routine. No more could she partake of the wine she so loved with every meal. She was constantly uncomfortable, irritable, and reportedly lashing out at others for even less reason than usual. And there wasn't even a newborn tampering with her sleep schedule yet; Gordon could only imagine how much her temper would escalate if she had to nurse an infant and change its diapers alone. Mysandra already struggled with taking out the trash, after all, claiming that the smell gave her migraines. He'd had to arrange for another maiden to do those menial chores in her stead, which already had some of the other women in the community grumbling, for Mysandra was not their Luna -- yet.
There was also that tiny little voice in his head that worried Mysandra would take out her temper on the child. He needed to be there to ground his wife; to take the brunt of her anger, lest their child suffer unduly. A knife of guilt twisted in his chest at the accusatory thought, but for once he let it linger. According to the Night Goddess, Mysandra was his perfect match, but he'd realised long ago that didn't mean she was perfect. He had two lives to protect now, not just one. Gordon had to consider their safety from all angles.
That was why he owed Red his thanks, along with a life debt. War was coming to the Blood Moon Pack, and his compliance would secure his family immunity in the coming battle. That was why he'd allowed the auburn-haired Witch of the East to press that shifting-leather satchel into his hands; why he'd come to this grove in the dead of the night, and delayed calling on the others to join him. When the moon was fully reflected in the calm surface of the pond, he'd called on Nya's Grace and channeled it into the water, frowning as he concentrated fiercely on envisioning the place he wanted to emerge. Sure enough, the water had silvered and gone perfectly still, heralding the opening of a Moon Gate.
Gordon had stepped into the Gate and stepped out onto a small grotto, only a few miles from the Blood Moon village. It was slightly further away than the one he usually used, and only flooded enough to be used half the year round, but that was why he'd chosen it this night. The odds of someone encountering him were slim.
Still, he'd acted with haste, burying the leather satchel beneath the roots of a tree outside. It would be foolish to take it with him into the village; the magical artifacts inside would raise too many questions, which he couldn't afford if he was to pull off his new role as an informant.
He'd been careful to over his tracks before stepping back into the Gate, but he'd left feeling confident that none would guess at his presence. When he emerged from the dam, back in the charred woods, he'd done the same. The Gate was their ticket home, unbeknownst to Hunter, but Gordon knew that Bradon was familiar with portal magic. He didn't want the yellow-eyed menace catching onto the fact that Gordon had already gone somewhere without them.
Only when he was sure of his deception did he sit back on his haunches and throw back his head, summoning the others with a mournful howl.
