Chapter Text
When he was younger, his mother used to tell him stories of old. She would cradle him in her arms, caressing his golden curls, and point to the moon during cold winter nights.
“She will always watch over you,” she would say, looking at the sky.
“My dearest boy. She will love you as one of her children. She is the one who gave you your wolf.”
Ilya would toy with the locks of her long hair, the moonlight washing over him like a warm blanket of silver thread, leaving him content and at peace.
They used to spend hours like that, between tales of old battles and victorious hunts, and Ilya would forget the whistling of the wind and the hunger in his belly. And it was easy to forget. Years later, Ilya carried only the memory of the comforting heat of her body, the gentle rhythm of her voice, and the tender sadness in her eyes.
And a tale she told him again and again, weaving it like a spell into his heart.
Many ages before their time, when magic still flowed strongly in their veins and wolves ran free through the land, discord had grown between the moon children. They had fought among themselves in bloody battles and their hatred had pushed them to near extinction. In a world where their kind were already at the mercy of the sun-born children, hunted for centuries and regarded as savage animals, their destiny had seemed inevitable. They were to be swept away by the winds of time and remembered only as a legend of a bygone era.
Then, an unforeseen alliance changed the curse of history. Love had grown between the firstborn daughters of the northern tribes, and in a secret bonding ritual under the moon, they had joined their wolves for eternity. That unbreakable bond led to a concord between their people and the dawn of a new era. Their might was so great, and the force of the magic born from their union so staggering, that the warring tribes of the wolf children had finally laid down their arms and sworn fealty to them.
For a hundred years they ruled together, a hundred years they loved, and a hundred years they guided their people. They were called the Daughters of the Moon, and in the high mountain temples their image was forever cast: two women locked in an eternal embrace, etched upon shrine walls where couples laid offerings of devotion. Beneath them, two wolves sang to the silver moon, a testament to a bond that even time could not sever.
His mother would tell stories of them marching into battle, shifting into their wolves and singing to the moon in victory. Sadness filled her words. For many long years, that magic had abandoned their people, leaving them stuck between worlds—unable to take their true form.
“It is love,” she would whisper against his temple, holding him close. “In the end, it is love and might that will save us. Never forget that.”
* * *
Ilya had only seen twelve winters when she’d left him to return to the moon.