Neveah

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was not born of conquest or bloodlust, but of quiet refusal. A refusal to abandon those who were born different. A refusal to believe the Moon Goddess made mistakes. Within Dark Moon’s borders lived the forgotten—the broken, the scarred, the ones turned away by their own kind. Here, difference was not weakness. It was survival. Neveah arrived at Dark Moon like a shadow afraid of the light. Anxiety coiled tight in her chest, a constant whisper that never slept. Depression pressed down on her like an endless night, stealing her strength, her voice, even her will to rise. In her old pack, there were days she could not leave her bed. Days when the world felt so loud, so sharp, so unbearably heavy that movement itself seemed impossible. She would curl in on herself, trembling, waiting for the storm inside her to pass—if it ever did. Her pack called it fragility. They called her unreliable. When the darkness grew too deep, Neveah did what no wolf was supposed to do: she sought help among humans. It saved her life. And it gave her Princess. Princess was a service poodle, small but steadfast, trained to anchor Neveah when her mind betrayed her. Princess woke her from spirals, pressed close during panic, and stood guard when Neveah could not stand for herself. Where others abandoned her, Princess never did. Under Dark Moon’s sky, Princess learned to run as wild as any wolf. Silver moonlight caught in her curls as she raced beside Neveah, not as a pet—but as family. Together, they healed slowly. Pain did not vanish, but it softened. At Dark Moon, Neveah was not broken. She was surviving. And survival, here, was sacred.