Bound by the Moon

Prologue

The air was thick with tension, every breath heavy with an unspoken grief that clung to the Silverclaw Pack like a shadow. Outside the grand packhouse, the moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the dense forest that stretched endlessly beyond the territory's borders. It was the same moon that had once brought comfort, its gentle glow a reminder of their strength, of the wolf within. But tonight, that glow was cold, indifferent to the turmoil within.

Astrid stood at the edge of the clearing, her feet bare on the damp earth, toes curling into the soil as if searching for some semblance of grounding. But there was none to be found. Not for her. Not since that night.

She could still hear the cries. The wails of the pack as her mother, the Luna, bled out during childbirth. The frantic shouts of healers, trying to stop the unstoppable. The deafening silence that followed when the life finally left her mother's eyes. And then, the worst sound of all—her father's broken sobs as he cradled his mate's lifeless body, his heart shattered in a way that even the strongest Alpha couldn't survive.

Her father, the once-great Alpha of the Silverclaw Pack, had withered away after that night. His once proud figure became a hollow shell of what it had been, consumed by grief and guilt. Astrid had watched helplessly as the man she'd admired slowly faded, his strength lost to the void left by her mother's death. The pack had tried to save him, to bring him back from the brink, but in the end, it was love—love for his mate—that had killed him.

Astrid's heart clenched as she remembered how he had slipped away quietly one evening, his spirit too broken to go on. Her brother, Thorne, had taken the mantle of Alpha after that, but not without consequences. And now, with her parents both gone, Astrid was nothing more than a ghost in her own pack.

Blamed. Shunned. Abused.

Her hands trembled at her sides as she remembered the cruel words, the glares of hatred that had followed her every step since that night. "It's your fault," they had whispered. "You killed her." And in their eyes, she had. She had been there, after all, standing in the room when the life drained from her mother's body. She had done nothing. Could do nothing. The pack had needed someone to blame, and Astrid was the easy choice.

Thorne, her older brother, should have protected her. He should have stood by her side, defended her from the whispers and the fists. But even he couldn't look at her without seeing the ghost of their mother. Even he had begun to believe the lies, or perhaps he simply found it easier to accept the blame that way.

Astrid winced, her fingers tracing the faint scars on her arms—remnants of the punishments she had endured. The Silverclaw Pack was one of honor, of discipline, but that had not extended to her. No, she was the exception. The weak link. The cursed child.

The pack had punished her in more ways than one. Not only had they stripped her of her dignity, but they had also bound her wolf, sealing away the part of her that made her one of them. Without her wolf, she was a shell of herself. No strength, no heightened senses, no ability to shift beneath the moon. Just a human trapped in the body of a werewolf. They had told her it was for the good of the pack, that she was too dangerous, too broken to be trusted with her full power.

And so, she had endured. Silenced. Bound. Powerless.

She had tried to run once—tried to escape the torment and find some semblance of freedom beyond the pack's borders. But that had ended quickly. Thorne had found her before she even reached the edge of the territory. His rage had been a force of nature, and she had never tried again.

Now, as she stood in the moonlit clearing, she felt the weight of that prison more than ever. The clearing had once been her refuge, a place where she could escape the stifling walls of the packhouse and breathe. But even here, the memories were too thick, too painful to shake.