Hour of the Moon

Chapter 27: The Ghost That Wore Wohali's Face

Waya

The night held its breath. Even the forest seemed to recoil as something colder than rain threaded through the air.

And then I saw him.

Wohali.

My brother—dead and buried, mourned and remembered—stood before me like the ghost of a sin I hadn't confessed. His eyes caught the moonlight, glinting with a crimson hunger that didn't belong to anything human.

Fear rooted me to the earth. My lungs forgot how to function.

"I died," he said, voice carrying the weight of two worlds. "But I was revived by the blood of the white wolf demon. He gave me a new chance at life... again."

The words sank like teeth. His tone was almost casual, but each syllable scraped bone. His movements were measured, harmless only at a glance—like frost pretending not to burn.

"Why are you here?" The question left my throat dry, threadbare.

A sigh rolled from him, heavy as memory. "I came back because I wanted to see you," he said softly. "I thought maybe I could piece my life together again. But this town, this place we called home..." He paused, and when he lifted his face, something ancient flickered behind his gaze. "It's already marked. The prophecy's being fulfilled."

The warmth in his expression curdled into rage. His crimson eyes gleamed like coals fanned by grief.

"The community mourned you, Wali," I said, the old name trembling out of habit.

He laughed then—a sound like broken glass sliding across stone. "The same community that pretended to love me?" he spat. "They mourned the story of me, not the man."

The air thickened. His anger rolled outward, a storm without mercy.

"You don't mean this," I said, taking a step forward. "You don't—"

"Oh, I mean every word." His voice split, half man, half something else. "You took my place, Waya. You always wanted it. The Elders made it easy for you."

"I had no choice!" The words tore from my chest. "They ordered it. They indoctrinated me to take your place. You think I wanted this?"

"Funny," he said, smiling without humor. "Do you know who ordered my death?"

The question hit like a blow.

He leaned close, breath sour with blood and shadow. "The Elders, little brother. Your precious keepers. Mom and Dad knew—they just wanted to protect their golden boy. Poor little Waya. So pathetic."

Something inside me split.

Rage flooded my veins, hot and holy. "You're lying."

"Am I?" His smirk was pure desecration.

The growl tore from my throat before I could stop it, my body responding faster than my grief. Bones cracked, muscles convulsed—the shift claiming me under the watching moon. Fur burst through skin, vision sharpening to the predatory clarity of the beast.

Wohali answered in kind. His body warped and expanded, the transformation violent, triumphant.

Two brothers, two wolves, once born of the same mother, now born of opposite faiths.

We collided.

The impact shook the forest. Claws raked fur; blood sprayed against bark. Every strike carried history—the shared hunts, the laughter, the promises now weaponized.

He was larger, faster, fueled by the demon blood threading through his veins. But I had learned discipline, learned control. Every parry was a prayer, every blow a confession.

His teeth found my shoulder. Pain flared bright. My roar split the night.

I threw him off, breathing ragged, the world narrowing to instinct. We circled, predators and kin, two halves of a broken story trying to devour each other's ending.

Then—a sound. A long, metallic note piercing through the chaos. Not natural. A call.

Wohali froze, head snapping toward the trees. Something beyond us was summoning him.

He backed away, the shift sliding off him like smoke. His human form reemerged, torn and bloodied, eyes fever-bright. He brushed ash and leaves from his clothes, as if the battle had been a mere inconvenience.

"Unfortunately," he said, voice cold with amusement, "I can't kill you tonight."

I shifted halfway back, chest heaving, half man, half wolf.

He smiled—a gruesome echo of what once had been brotherly affection. "But I'll be back, baby brother. Consider this a courtesy. When the full moon rises again, so will your reckoning. And Cherokee—" his lips curved into a sneer, "—will burn for its lies."

He turned, dissolving into the darkness that had claimed him once before.

I collapsed to my knees, breath sharp and wet in my lungs, blood warm against the night air. The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was a wound.

For a long moment, I could only listen—to the echo of his footsteps fading, to the beat of my own heart refusing to slow.

Then I looked up at the moon, still red at its edges, and whispered to the gods who had long stopped listening.

"Send me strength," I said. "Because this time, I'm not sure I'll survive him."

My mind reached out along the pack's bond, a thread of thought and desperation cast into the night.

He's back.
The dead walk. The prophecy's begun.

The forest stirred in reply—howls rising, voices answering.

For the first time in years, I was afraid.

Not of dying—
but of what my brother had become.