Hour of the Moon

Chapter 10: The Song of the Moon

Keiran

Evening came wrapped in amber light, clouds drifting like ghosts across a bruised sky.

I moved through my apartment in silence, the dull ache of fatigue pressing behind my eyes. The morning felt far away now—hollow, dreamlike, as if it had belonged to another woman entirely.

Leftovers reheated. Kettle hissing. The ordinary rituals of pretending I was fine.

But each time my thoughts brushed the memory of that dream—the rain, the cliff, the wolf—a tightness gripped my chest like a hand that refused to let go.

It was only a dream.
It was only a dream.

I repeated it until the words lost shape, became a chant without faith. The tea must've been stronger than Savannah realized.

I stepped out onto the small balcony, mug warm between my palms. The wind carried the faint perfume of rain and cut grass. The moon floated above the clouds, pale and watchful, like an eye that never blinked. My skin prickled.

"Get a grip, Keiran," I muttered, pulling my robe tighter.

Inside, my phone chimed—Savannah again.

Sleep well, hon. Tomorrow will be better.

I smiled faintly and set the phone aside. Crawled into bed. The sheets were cool; the silence heavy.

But when sleep came, it came like drowning.

⸻

Waya

I dreamt of her again.

It began the way it always does—with death. My brother's scream cut short, the flash of steel, the dark slick of blood. But halfway through the nightmare, the scene split open like a wound, and something older crawled out.

The rain stopped. Night stretched wide, draped in silk. The moon rose fat and sovereign, stars bending beneath it like supplicants.

I was the wolf again—my paws whispering across damp earth, my breath fogging the air. Then I heard it: a melody threading through the trees. A flute, and a woman's voice, sorrow folded into song.

Waya.

My name. Spoken like prayer.

I froze. The scent came next—wet moss, warm skin, the sweet-electric pulse of her.

The wolf in me leaned forward, helpless. The song pulled at my bones like gravity.

"The song of the Moon compels you," the voice crooned. "Come to me. Let me set you free."

I ran—through branches and silver light, through the hush of leaves that whispered her name. The scent drew me to a clearing I knew too well: Akita's dwelling, washed in dreamlight.

A woman stood there.

She wore white that both clung and drifted, fabric alive with motion. Her skin was bark-brown, her hair a dark halo. Her eyes—gray-white, ancient—found me without fear.

"Come closer," she said, voice soft and amused. "I don't bite. I promise."

I should have resisted. But wolves don't know resistance; they only know hunger.

I stepped forward. Her hand met my muzzle, fingers brushing through my fur. The touch was human, deliberate, devastating.

"I admit," she whispered, "you still scare me. But I don't think you'd hurt me, would you?"

Her palm glowed faintly white, and the world inverted.

The fur burned away. The beast folded in on itself, and I stood before her as a man.

She stumbled back, eyes wide.

I glanced down. My body was clothed in white—a tunic, loose trousers that belonged to no time I'd lived.

"It really is you," she breathed. Wonder and fear warred in her gaze.

"You're imagining things," I said, voice rough. "This is a dream. Nothing more."

She shook her head, stepping closer. "Even if it is, I've seen you before. You're not some phantom."

Her eyes cut into me. "Do you think we're connected?"

My throat went dry. "No."

"You're lying." Her tone sharpened, flint against flint. "You know something."

"I told you—no."

"Whatever you're hiding," she said, fire in her voice, "I'll find out." She turned, storming into the trees, skirts snapping like flame.

I swore and followed, catching her by the arm. "Wait."

She spun, fury and moonlight in her eyes. "What? To tell me I'm crazy? I saw you change!"

"Who would believe you?" I hissed. "You're an outsider. You don't understand this place."

"So now you're threatening me?"

Before I could answer, the forest screamed—high, metallic, wrong. The air itself shuddered. Every hair on my body rose.

"Stay behind me," I ordered.

"What's happening?"

"Run," I growled.

The sound came closer—mocking laughter tangled with the screech of steel on stone. Shadows thickened between the trees, smoke blooming into form. The stench hit me first: sulfur, rot, the breath of the underworld.

"Waya..." she whispered, trembling.

"Don't move," I said, arm outstretched.

Eyes flared in the dark—red, burning. And behind them, a shape I knew too well.

A white wolf.

My blood froze.

We've been waiting for you, Waya.

Keiran screamed as blood wept from her eyes. The forest shattered into black.

⸻

Waya

"Waya! Waya!"

Nanye-hi's voice dragged me out of the void. Her hands were on my face, her eyes wide and wet.

"You were shaking," she sobbed. "I thought you'd stopped breathing."

I caught her wrists gently. "I'm fine, Nani."

"No, you're not." She stood, panic rising. "This is the third time this week. I'm calling your mother—she'll know what to mix."

I pressed fingers to the bridge of my nose, the ghost of the headache pulsing behind my eyes. "It won't help."

She ignored me, voice hushed and frantic in the hallway.

I sat in the dark, breath uneven, the taste of iron thick in my mouth. The vial at my throat was cold now—dead—but her name still echoed in the hollow between my ribs.

Keiran.

It wasn't supposed to live in me.
And yet it did.

The dream replayed in shards—the white wolf, the laughter, the blood.

Omen on omen.

Something was coming.
Something hungry.

And it carried my name between its teeth.

Ari Abdul- Cursed