Chosen by the Moon, Claimed by Him

Chapter 1: The Wolf in the Moonlit Woods

She shouldn't have come here tonight.

Ava knew the rules—everyone in Crestfall Village did. You didn't enter the Misty Forest on a full moon. You locked your doors, drew your curtains, and pretended the howling that rose from the tree line was only the wind.

But the ghost orchid bloomed exactly once a month, under exactly this light, and old Mrs. Farrow's lungs weren't going to heal themselves.

Ava adjusted her satchel and pushed deeper into the fog.

The forest breathed around her—not a metaphor, but a fact she'd never been able to explain to anyone without watching their eyes drift sideways. The trees exhaled. The earth listened. She'd felt it since childhood, this porous quality to the world, as though every living thing had a voice running just below the frequency of sound. She heard grief in birdsong. She tasted anger in rain.

Her mother had called it a gift.

The village had called it something else.

She found the orchid clinging to a mossy stone near the creek bend. Her knife was halfway out of its sheath when the sound reached her—not a howl. Something worse. A man, screaming.

Ava ran toward it. She couldn't explain that either. Every sensible instinct should have sent her the other direction.

The clearing opened before her like a wound.

He was on his knees at the center of it, both fists driving into the earth, and he was coming apart. There was no other word for it. His spine was wrong. His hands were wrong. The shadows around him moved like they were alive, and a sound tore out of his chest that belonged to nothing human.

Ava froze.

His head snapped up.

His eyes found her—and they were gold. Burning, furious, beautiful gold, lit from within like two coins held over a flame. She watched his lips pull back from teeth that were too sharp and she thought, distantly, I am going to die in this forest.

He lunged.

She didn't run.

Her mouth opened, and what came out was her mother's song.

She hadn't sung it since the funeral. She hadn't been able to—it lived in a locked room in her chest that she'd sealed tight for three years, afraid of the grief inside it. But the melody came anyway, unbidden, automatic, like breathing. A soft, circular tune in no language she could name. It rose from her throat and spread through the clearing like smoke from incense.

The creature—the man—stopped.

Three feet from her face, he stopped.

The gold in his eyes flickered. The terrible wrongness of his body seemed to still. He was on all fours, breathing in ragged heaves, staring at her like she was something he'd forgotten existed.

Ava kept singing.

She watched the tension leave him the way a storm front passes—not gently, not completely, but enough. His hands were human again. His spine was human again. He sat back on his heels in the moss