Chapter 2 A Strange Dream

The dream did not change.

Aria was at the edge of a forest bathed in moonlight, the trees grasping out in darkness toward her flesh. The world shone in silver and quiet. Snowflakes dropped, soft as breath, but it was not winter. No cold, just a strange heat buzzing under her skin-like something alive, waiting to be awakened.

And always, she felt him.

Not see. Not touch. But feel-like a hurricane raging around her center. His touch filled her brain, heavy and electric, like lightning held at bay.

"Little moon," he was always calling. His voice was velvet and icy. "Come home."

But only now that she could advance, only now that she could respond, the world broke-moonlight breaking on glass-and she awoke, panting for air, heart thrashing in the dark.

Aria's own breath misted against her windowpane as she gazed into the woods past elder grove. Dawn filtered across the villages' rooftops, frosting the fields. Yet another cold spring morning. Another dream that took too long in coming to rest.

She fingers the hollow at the base of her collarbone.

The crescent scar glowed dully under her nightgown-a silver shape, smooth and pale and unworldly since the day of her birth. No one else had it. Not her mother. Not her sister. And whenever she asked them, the villagers would shut up or turn away.

"A blessing," her mother would say, with a strained smile. "Or a warning.".

Now, at nineteen and just months shy of the full moon festival, Aria recognized it meant something else.

Something terrible.

She yanked on her boots and fled before her mother could restrain her. The scent of wet dirt filled the air as she fled across the narrow path to the orchard and, on the other side, the quiet fringe of the woods.

Villagers primarily dreaded the forest.

They talked of the creatures with shining eyes and bony teeth. They spoke of the Wolf King in hushed tones-of how he once ruled with fury and flame. Of how he vanished into the wilderness, mourning and cursed, waiting for his fated queen to come back.

That was a children's story.

Aria was not a child anymore. And she did not believe in fate.

But she dreamed of the Wolf King close to every night.

Not as an animal.

Not as a monster.

But as something else entirely.

The High Seer arrived in the village by sundown.

Her carriage was pulled by two black deer, her veil weighed down by silver stitching. Children trailed behind her wheels; elders closed their doors. And Aria's mother went pale as snow the moment the Seer had stepped onto their cottage steps.

"She's here for the blessing," her mother whispered. "Each generation, the stars must decide."

Aria scowled. "Decide what?"

But her mother merely kissed her forehead and said, "Wear white. Tonight. Whatever happens."

That evening, the village square was filled with torchlight. Girls ringed a circle, wearing white robes, flowers braided through their hair. Aria found herself standing among them against her will, her skin pricking under the Seer's gaze.

When the High Seer came upon her, the old woman stilled.

Air turned to ice. Fire went cold.

"Born at crescent moon," she breathed. "Marked by wild."

Aria's throat constricted. "What am I supposed to understand from that?"

The Seer leaned closer, voice rough and foreboding. "He dreams of you too, child. The King of woods. He looks to sky for your mark."

Aria backed away.

The Seer smiled, veil concealing her face. "You were not born to this village. You were born to stir the storm."

And the Seer raised her hands, and the torches flared, burning and intense, throwing dreadful shadows among the trees.

For one heartbeat, Aria would have sworn that she saw blazing gold eyes gazing at her through the leaves.

Watching.

Waiting.

And then they vanished.