Chapter 3 Moonlight Shift

Midnight arrived with ghostly silence.

The blizzard had exhausted itself, leaving behind a stillness so absolute, Lyra's own breathing was thunder. The storm clouds rolled away like curtains, revealing a sky strewn with stars-and one radiant full moon, round and glowing, bathed the snowy cosmos in silver.

Lyra crouched in her armchair, in wool and gazing at the sleeping wolf opposite her. The fire had reduced to fiery coals. Shadows gently capered upon the walls, and in their soft light, the creature seemed almost peaceful.

Almost.

Something shifted then.

She sat up, missing heart.

At first, it was only a tremor in the floor-barely a quiver, like distant thunder. Then the wolf groaned. His enormous form tensed, claws curling into the rug, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest.

Lyra stood slowly. "Easy... It's alright," she whispered, not knowing if he could hear her. "You're safe."

But the light in the room changed. The moonlight cut, slicing through the ice-etched windowpanes like a sword. It streamed down over the wolf's form, and suddenly-he began to shift.

The growl became a rasp, then a cry-not an animal one, but a human.

Bones cracked, slipping under fur. His back arched. His arms contorted. The thick pelt receded in waves, flowing into skin that shone with a memory of soft moonlight. His snout reshaped, jaw distorting into the contours of a human face. Claws shortened to fingers. Muscle and shape reordered, beautiful and terrible in shape.

Lyra's mouth covered by her hand.

It was like witnessing something sacred come to life.

When finally the light died, the creature did not stir.

But he was no longer a creature.

A man-tall and lean and powerful-lay where the great wolf had lain. His black hair lay in wet waves across his forehead, tousled from the change. His skin was deathly pale, the same blue-gray as the moon beyond the window. Scars marked his chest and shoulders like maps of old wars.

And his face...

He was heartbreak etched into flesh.

Square jaw, high cheekbones ridged with stubble, lips parted over labored breathing. His brow furrowed in agony, though even in unconsciousness, he had a presence of filling the room with mass.

Lyra swallowed.

This was not possible.

But then-his eyes opened.

Silver. Just like before.

But now, they did not hold the soul of a monster, but a man's-hurt wound, weary, and unbearably old.

She retreated as he groaned, bringing up a trembling hand to his temple.

He blinked, gradually coming into view. When he spoke, his voice was rough, cracked like ice breaking on a lake.

"You..."

Lyra's breath caught. "You can talk."

A faint smile toyed at the edge of his mouth. "Only when the moon allows it."

She stared at him, trying to quell the storm in her chest. "Who are you?

There was silence. Then he sat up, the blanket falling from his bare shoulders. He didn't seem bothered by his nakedness, but Lyra flushed and looked away, grabbing a spare cloak from the chair and tossing it over him.

He chuckled, a sound rich with amusement and pain.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For that. And... for not letting me die out there."

"You're welcome," she said softly, then added, "You nearly did."

"I've nearly died many times. I suppose I've grown used to the pain of healing bones."

She moved one step further. "What are you?"

He looked back at her. "A prince. Once. A man cursed to bear the flesh of a beast... until the moon remembers my name."

"That mark," she said, pointing to his shoulder where the wound still glowed faintly with salve and faint magic. "It's a royal sigil. You're from the Moon Court."

His expression darkened. "What remains of it."

Lyra folded her arms, both for warmth and composure. "Your name?"

He paused. Then: "Kael."

She repeated it softly. "Kael."

It tasted strange and beautiful on her tongue.

"And you?" he inquired, looking at her with a piercing interest. "You're not just an herbalist, are you?"

Lyra paused. "No. I... carry a bit of magic. Ancient forest blood. I only use it for curing." She narrowed her eyes. "That doesn't mean I'm unable to turn you into a frog if you get ideas."

His smile returned, this time gentler. "Noted."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The fire crackled softly, and the moonlight stroked the creases of his hair like a lover's fingers. She was still gazing-and yet she couldn't look away.

"I don't understand," she breathed finally. "Why now? Why did you shift here, with me?"

His voice dropped, heavy with something ancient and painful.

"Because the curse weakens... when I'm with the person who can undo it."

Lyra's heart faltered. "You think I'm-?"

"I don't know." He stroked his head, eyes silvery and flickering like candles. "But the bond-whatever it is-brought me to you."

The air between them grew dense, thick with unspoken. Destiny. Magic. Hunger. An odd pull neither of them could explain.

Lyra moved a little closer, unable to stop herself.

"Then let's find out," she whispered.