There was a full moon tonight, glowing over the oak forests that bordered my pack’s territory. A perfect silver disk, almost mocking, considering how restless I felt. As always, the scent of damp earth and pine, and the distant river laced the wind with its metallic tang. Nights like this made my wolf restless, begging to be set free.

But I couldn’t. Not tonight.

Tonight, I was on patrol—my first solo mission, courtesy of Gamma Damien Harou, who apparently thought it was a great idea to throw me to the wolves. Well, technically, I was one of the wolves. But was the only scout on the Eastern side of the river.

I stood at the edge of the Enchanted River, the legendary divide between us and them. The Witches. The Cursed Ones. Our ancestors had been at war with them for centuries before some goddess, in her infinite wisdom, decided to put a glowing river between us to force a truce. No one crossed it. Ever.

At least, that was the rule.

For as long as I could remember, I had wondered what was on the other side. We learned about them in school. How witches lived in covens, and worked magic that twisted the world around them, and how they were ruled by the Council of Six High Priestesses. The biggest lesson was never to trust a witch, and never cross the river.

But I had always been the curious type. Not the kind that sticks a hand into a fire just to see if it burns, but I liked to push boundaries.

Unfortunately, curiosity doesn’t get you very far when you’re a Baudelaire, bound by duty and expectation. The Baudelaire lineage had served as the Betas of the Nightclaw Pack for generations. My father before me, his father before him, and now my brother, Marrick. It was a title steeped in tradition, a legacy of strength and loyalty that ran in our bloodline.

At least, it was supposed to.

I sighed, adjusting the Baudelaire ceremonial dagger strapped to my thigh, a family heirloom that was apparently “blessed by the Elders” and could cut through witch spells. It had been my brother Marrick’s before he passed it down to me on my eighteenth birthday. A tradition for the next Beta-in-training.

Not that I was officially training to be a Beta. That was Marrick’s title. As for me, I was just another warrior, clawing my way up in a world where rank meant everything. Being born a Baudelaire should have given me the same prestige my brother had, but it didn’t. Because I wasn’t like the others.

The Baudelaire men carried strength in their blood, immunity to magic, and resilience that set them apart. But I had none of it. I had the name, the bloodline, the expectations, but not the power. And in a pack like Nightclaw, the Ultima Pack, that made all the difference.

Here, rank was life. And I had been fighting for mine since the day I shifted.

Unlike the human world, where people got to choose their own path, wolves were assigned ranks the moment they shifted. We had Alphas, Betas, and Gammas—the powerhouses. Zetas and Thetas—the strategists and enforcers. And then there were the Deltas and Omegas, wolves who kept the pack functioning but didn’t hold warrior status.

At sixteen, every wolf entered The Academy, a brutal four-year training program that decided your future. We are not all about fighting—though trust me, there was plenty of that—it was about mastering your instincts, understanding the laws of the pack, and proving you had what it took to survive and serve the Alpha House.

By the time you graduated at twenty, you were either an elite warrior, a strategist, or—if you weren’t good enough—you were sent to the lower ranks to serve in administrative roles.

I had been one of the best in my class, constantly training and pushing myself. Not because I wanted to be the best, but because I had to be. As Baudelaire, people expected me to fall in line, and follow in the footsteps of my family.

But I had other plans, which is why, at twenty-three, I was still proving myself. I could have trained under Marrick, followed the Beta path as expected. It would have been the logical choice. But instead, I had chosen Damien, our Gamma and head combat trainer, a move that had raised more than a few eyebrows. No one questioned it openly, though, being a Gamma-ranked warrior was just as prestigious in its own way, but I knew what they thought. That I had rejected my own bloodline’s rank because I wasn’t good enough. Because I wasn’t Baudelaire enough.

But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.

Damien had been breathing down my neck since graduation, saying I needed “focus.” I had a different word for it: perfectionist overkill. But I let him push me, shape me into a stronger person. Because regardless of what everyone assumed, this was my choice.

Still, here I was, alone in the woods, trusted with a real scouting mission for the first time.

What could possibly go wrong?

The wind shifted, and my wolf bristled. The scents in the air changed, and a sharp, acrid smell hit my nose. It wasn’t natural. Too bitter, too jarring, like something was burning even though I saw no smoke.

Magic.

A cold prickle crawled up my spine. Witches never crossed the river. That was the one rule they actually followed. But this scent—this feeling—told me otherwise.

I scanned the trees, eyes narrowing, muscles tensed. Nothing. But I knew better than to ignore my instincts.

Slowly, I crept forward, careful to keep my steps light. The dagger at my thigh was a solid comfort, but it wouldn’t do much if I got blasted by magic. If the witches had crossed, I needed to alert the pack.

Then I saw a flicker of pale blue light in the distance, filtering through the trees. It was coming from a small clearing that’s easy to miss unless you know exactly where to look. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

Witchcraft.

My pulse quickened as I moved closer, staying low. The Academy had drilled stealth into us—how to move with the shadows, and become invisible even in plain sight. I put every lesson to use, slipping through the undergrowth.

Then I saw them.

Four figures, robed in black, gathered in a tight circle around a stone altar, symbols glowing along its surface. Their hands were raised, voices murmuring in a language I didn’t understand.

Shit.

I didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to process what they were doing. Because as I turned to retreat, my foot snapped a branch, the crack impossibly loud in the stillness.

The chanting stopped, and four glowing, inhuman eyes turned toward me.

I had about three seconds to react before everything went to hell.

I shifted instantly, my body elongating and reshaping itself in the familiar burst of pain and power that came with the transformation. My vision sharpened, my hearing amplified, my instincts roaring to life. My wolf snarled, teeth bared, ready to lunge.

The witches reacted just as quickly, their hands moving in unison as they started to weave their magic. I could feel the pressure of it against my fur, like a storm about to break. But I didn’t wait for them to finish whatever spell they were casting. I lunged forward, teeth bared, aiming for the nearest witch.

But before I could reach them, something hit me hard.

A force slammed into my side with the thrust of a sledgehammer, sending me crashing through the trees. I hit the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from my lungs, stars exploding in my vision.

I struggled to get up, but my limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as if wrapped in invisible chains. A spell.

Damn it.

A shadow stood over me, and through the haze of pain, I saw him.

Tall. Lean. Dangerous. His dark hair curled around sharp cheekbones, and his eyes, goddess, his eyes, burned like embers.

My breath hitched. Not from fear. Not entirely.

He knelt beside me, his face unreadable as he studied me. When he spoke, his voice was deep, and entirely too calm.

“Luna Baudelaire,” he murmured, my name rolling off his tongue like he had been waiting to say it. He tilted his head slightly, a slow smirk curving his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

And then, everything went black.