Hour of the Moon

Chapter 26: Crossroads

Keiran

The red moon burned above me like an open wound.
The great white wolf lunged—fangs glinting, breath fetid with rot—and instinct rose to meet it.

I lifted my hands.

Light exploded.

A torrent of white fire poured from my palms, howling through the air. When it struck the beast, its fur curled, blackened, and burned. The smell of singed hair filled the clearing as its scream split the night. The wolf's body burst into flame and toppled, thrashing until the earth swallowed the sound.

For one terrible heartbeat, the world stood still.

Then the lesser wolves moved—misshapen things, half-man, half-hyena, yellow-eyed and snarling. They stared at me in disbelief, then descended on their fallen alpha, ripping him apart with wet, greedy sounds. Bone cracked. Flesh tore. Steam rose from their feast.

"Disgusting," I breathed, taking a step back.

The glow from my hands pulsed again—white veins of power racing across my skin. I raised them once more, and beams of moonlight surged outward. The air hissed. The mutants shrieked as the light touched them, their bodies blistering, collapsing into ash that hissed in the damp soil.

When the last one fell, silence returned—thick, unreal.
My hands smoked. My nose began to bleed. Warm drops spattered my glowing palms.

The ground wavered beneath me. Power drained away, leaving only exhaustion.
I swayed, then crashed to my knees.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was a man dressed in white, walking toward me through the smoke.

Akita

The scent of moon-blood and burnt fur led me to her. The world thrummed with leftover magic.

I moved by vibration, not sight. Four centuries ago, when I surrendered my wolf to the world of fae, my eyes turned the color of storm-light and forgot how to see. Yet the world never stopped speaking; it hummed against my clay-red skin, guiding each step of my staff.

The corpses hissed softly as rain found them. At the center, her heartbeat.

Kamari's bloodline.

I knelt, hand hovering above her aura. Heat licked my palm; the necklace guarding her fought even my touch. Her body glowed faintly—brown-gold skin bathed in moonlight, coily red-brown hair curling at the ends. She looked human, heartbreakingly young.

"You poor thing," I murmured, my East-African cadence roughened by time. "They gave you the moon and no map to survive it."

The amulet pulsed harder. I recognized the craft: moon-iron forged by Kamari's hand. I'd watched her shape it once, silver curls catching firelight, eyes blue-grey as storm water, skin dark as polished ebony. A queen disguised as a warrior.

If she had not chosen the throne, if she had stayed—our daughter might have looked like this. The thought tore through me with exquisite cruelty.

"Kamari," I whispered, "what have you bound her to?"

The forest answered only with the hiss of cooling ash.

I laid my palm over Keiran's heart and let a thread of my magic slide between us. The energy bucked, then settled. Her pulse steadied. The amulet's hunger eased.

Her breathing evened; her lips parted in a sigh. I felt the faint tremor of exhaustion more than heard it.

I gathered her into my arms. She was light, warm, luminous with spent power. The moon's heat painted my skin as I walked.

My cabin waited beyond the ridge, its wards humming at my approach. I nudged the door open with my shoulder, found my way by echo and scent, and laid her upon the bed near the fire.

The glow at her throat dimmed to a watchful shimmer. I sat beside her, fingertips resting against her wrist. "Sleep, moon-child," I murmured. "The night owes you rest."

⸻

Keiran

Warmth brushed my face. Firelight, soft and amber. The air smelled of herbs and old wood.

I blinked up at a tall man whose skin gleamed like red earth after rain. Close-cropped curls framed a face both young and ancient. His eyes were pale grey, sightless, yet when he turned toward me, I felt seen.

"You're safe," he said, voice low and melodic. "My name is Akita."

The word rang a distant bell.
Akita.

Waya had spoken of a fae doctor that tried to severe the tie that flowed between us.

My throat tightened. "You're him."

He tilted his head, listening. "So you know my work."

I nodded, confusion knotting through awe. "You feel familiar. Like... a long-lost relative I never met but already miss."

A faint smile tugged his mouth. "Blood remembers what time forgets."

The necklace between us pulsed once, bright as a heartbeat.

I studied his face—the clay hue of his skin, the gentle ruin of his eyes—and wondered how many lives had touched this one, how many loves he had outlived.

"Rest," he said again. "We'll speak of wolves and debts when your body finishes arguing with miracles."

I wanted to argue, to ask how he'd found me, how he'd once loved the woman who lived inside my dreams—but exhaustion pulled harder.

As I drifted, I heard him whisper something that might have been a prayer, or a memory:

"If she had stayed, our daughter might have looked like you."

The words followed me down into sleep, into the pulse of the moon that would not let me go.

End of Chapter