Adam and Amy

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was not born of conquest or pride, but of exile. It rose in the shadows for those cast aside—wolves blessed by the Moon Goddess yet rejected by their own blood. Within Dark Moon’s borders, the broken were not hidden. They were named, seen, and kept safe. Adam had never believed he would need such a place. He was healthy. Strong. Loyal. Born into a pack that prided itself on acceptance, on unity, on the lie that love was unconditional. For years, that lie held. Then Amy was born beneath a silvered sky, small hands curled around his finger, eyes too bright, too trusting. From the moment she laughed, Adam knew his world had changed. Amy grew, but not as the others did. Her body aged; her mind did not. At eighteen, her thoughts remained those of an eight-year-old—curious, gentle, unguarded. A forever child. At first, the pack whispered. Then they watched. Finally, they judged. “Defective,” they called her. Adam heard the word and felt something inside him fracture beyond repair. The night the pack decided Amy was a burden was the night Adam stopped being one of them. He did not argue. He did not beg. He took his daughter into his arms as she asked innocent questions about the moon and why everyone looked angry. He left with nothing but blood on his hands from battles he refused to fight—and a promise he would never let her be hurt. He hunted Dark Moon like a dying man hunts air. And when he found it, he found something his birth pack never was. Here, Amy’s laughter was not mocked. Her innocence was not feared. Her forever childhood was not a curse, but a truth honored. And Adam—scarred, exhausted, unbroken—finally understood what the Moon Goddess had intended all along. Some wolves are born to protect the pack. Others are born to burn it down for the sake of one innocent soul.