Hëna Arranged by The Moon

The moon hung low in the lavender sky, veiled by ribbons of dusk-tinted clouds. Its silver glow shimmered over the jagged peaks of the Silverfang Highlands, casting long shadows across the stone courtyards and wolf-carved battlements of Raventhorn Keep. The wind howled like a restless spirit through the spires-cold, sharp, familiar.

Kaela Raventhorn stood on the balcony outside her chamber, her hands resting on the frost-laced railing, her golden eyes fixed on the rising moon. Her bones ached tonight. Not from pain, but from memory-a memory that stirred whenever the wind whispered her name the same way her father once did.

Kaela, little storm...

She closed her eyes.

It had been seven years since her father's death on the Northern Border. Seven years since she'd become heir to the Silverfangs, trained in diplomacy and bloodshed, armor and obedience. Her mother, Lady Aeryn, ruled in his absence with a voice that could shatter glass and a smile as cold as steel. And Kaela had followed in her footsteps. Mostly.

Her betrothal to Darian Vale had been announced last moon cycle. The Keep had erupted in celebration. Flags unfurled, meat roasted, and wolves danced in the Great Hall as if joy came easy.

But Kaela had felt nothing.

Not when Darian knelt and kissed her hand with lips that held no heat. Not when her mother placed the engagement torque around her neck, forged of ancestral silver. Not even when her packmates roared her name into the night sky.

Her heart remained silent.

Until three nights ago.

Until the howls came.

---

They began as distant echoes-too far to be Silverfang scouts, too raw to be prey. They came from the forest beyond the border cliffs, where no wolf dared tread. Kaela had woken in a cold sweat, her wolf stirring beneath her skin, drawn toward the sound like iron to a lodestone.

Tonight, they had returned. Closer. Urgent.

She straightened as footsteps approached behind her, soft and controlled.

"You should be inside," said Darian's voice, smooth as velvet but always slightly too polished. "The wind's bitter."

Kaela didn't turn. "I like the cold."

Darian moved beside her, his cloak lined with black wolf fur, his armor gleaming even in the half-light. Everything about him was perfect-his jaw, his posture, his reputation. A warrior molded for admiration.

Yet somehow, perfection made her skin itch.

"You've been distant," he said after a beat, brushing his hand against hers. "Since the binding ceremony."

She didn't pull away. Not yet. "I've been thoughtful."

"About us?"

"About everything."

Silence stretched between them. Down below, the Keep's gates creaked as guards rotated shifts. Kaela caught the scent of pine and ash-Raventhorn's eternal perfume.

"I know duty weighs heavy on you," Darian said, gaze fixed on the moon. "But soon, this will all change. When we are mated, your burdens will be shared. Our rule will be stronger than your mother's ever was."

Her brows twitched. Stronger than my mother's? Was that admiration or ambition?

"And if I don't want to rule with strength alone?" she asked softly. "What if I want something... else?"

"Then you'll find it at my side." He reached for her chin, tilting her face toward him. "Together, we will shape Lunaris. You and I."

His kiss hovered too close. Kaela turned away before it landed.

"I should rest," she said, stepping back into the chamber.

Darian didn't stop her. But as she passed, she felt his gaze linger-sharp, possessive. As if she were already his.

---

That night, Kaela couldn't sleep.

She shed her ceremonial robes, slipping into her wolfskin cloak, braided her dark hair tight, and climbed out of her chamber window onto the ivy-lined wall that led to the stables. Her heart thundered with every step, not from fear, but from freedom.

She saddled Ashra, her midnight-gray direwolf, with practiced hands. The beast huffed once, sensing her urgency.

They rode fast. Through the moonlit valley, over the frozen riverbed, and into the whispering woods that curled like claws around the Highland borders.

Beyond the last Silverfang marker stone, the air changed. It smelled wilder. Older.

Forbidden.

Kaela, little storm...

The howls came again. Louder. Closer. This time, Kaela followed.

Ashra's paws thundered over frost-bitten leaves, her breath steaming in the cold air as they plunged deeper into the forbidden woods.

The trees here grew gnarled and ancient, their trunks twisted like they were frozen mid-scream. Moonlight barely pierced the canopy. The air was thick with moss and mist, and something older... something watching.

Kaela's heart pulsed in rhythm with the beast beneath her, yet her mind raced ahead, chasing the sound. The howls no longer echoed. They called. No fear touched her bones-only the gnawing certainty that something was waiting.

She reined Ashra to a halt near a dark ravine where stones jutted like broken teeth. A strange scent drifted on the breeze-iron, sweat, burned pine. Blood.

Kaela slid from the saddle and knelt. The forest floor told the story in silence.

Pawprints. Four-legged, massive. And drag marks. Something-or someone-was wounded.

She followed the trail on foot, her senses sharpening. She reached a hollow carved between the roots of a fallen giant oak, partially concealed by underbrush and rock. Something shifted inside.

Kaela's hand fell to the dagger strapped to her thigh. "Show yourself," she called. "I'm armed."

A growl answered.

Low. Wounded. But unmistakably wolf.

Kaela stepped closer, slowly. The scent hit her fully now: wet fur, old blood, and something unfamiliar-wild and untamed, like lightning caught in a bottle.

Then, from the shadows, it emerged.

A massive black wolf staggered into the half-light, eyes glowing molten-red. Its fur was matted with dried blood, a deep gash split across its flank. It growled again, trying to hold its ground, but its legs trembled.

Kaela's breath caught.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

The mark on the wolf's shoulder-half hidden by grime and blood-was unmistakable. A crescent-shaped scar bisected by a claw. The Nightmane sigil. Every Silverfang child was warned of it in nursery tales. Of the wolves who betrayed the High Moon Pact. Of the monsters exiled into the wilds for daring to mix magic with madness.

This was no animal.

This was a Nightmane shifter.

Kaela's dagger trembled in her grip. She should strike. End it. Prove her loyalty.

But then the wolf looked up-and something in his eyes stopped her cold.

They weren't just feral. They weren't pleading. They were... human. Cunning. Pain-wracked. Defiant. Familiar.

"Shift," Kaela said, barely above a whisper.

The wolf flinched. Then, with a grunt, collapsed to his side, heaving.

She cursed under her breath and knelt. The wound on his side was deep-likely from silver. The flesh around it shimmered with strange bruising, like cursed veins. If left untreated, he would be dead by dawn.

Kaela hesitated. Every instinct in her body warned her against this. Her mother would call it treason. Darian would call it betrayal. Her people would call it madness.

But her wolf... her wolf called it fate.

She pulled a small vial from her satchel-moonroot extract-and poured it over the wound. The Nightmane jerked, snarling weakly. She shushed him.

"I should kill you," she said softly, pressing a clean cloth to the gash. "But I think you're the one who's going to kill everything I know."

---

By dawn, Kaela had dragged the wounded shifter into a cave hidden by brambles and snow. She lit a small fire, fed him drops of healing elixir between clenched teeth, and watched over him as the first rays of light slipped through the mouth of the hollow.

She dozed lightly, one hand on her dagger.

When she woke, he was gone.

No-not gone. Shifted.

He was human now. Or close.

Naked, slumped against the cave wall, hair damp with sweat, pale from blood loss. His skin was tan beneath the grime, marked by scars and tattoos inked in curling tribal runes. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. And his eyes-

Kaela froze.

They were still red.

Not blood-red, like madness. But ember-red, like coals beneath ash. Like magic that never fully dies.

He stared at her.

"You're not... afraid," he rasped, voice cracked from disuse.

Kaela stood slowly. "Should I be?"

"You're Silverfang."

"You're Nightmane."

"Then we're both monsters."

She tilted her head. "You don't look like a monster."

A bitter smile. "You haven't seen me angry."

"I've seen worse."

He tried to sit upright but winced. "Why help me?"

"I haven't decided yet." She crossed her arms. "What's your name?"

"...Riven."

The name curled in the air like smoke-sharp, jagged, and ancient. Something about it tugged at her. Like she'd heard it before. In a dream. Or a memory not her own.

"And you?" he asked.

Kaela hesitated. She should lie. She meant to lie.

But her mouth betrayed her.

"Kaela. Kaela Raventhorn."

His brows drew together. "The heir?"

"Yes."

A slow, quiet moment passed between them. Then Riven gave a raspy laugh.

"Well then," he said, eyes locked to hers, "I guess fate just pissed on both our bloodlines."

Kaela should have left.

Every minute she lingered with Riven in that cave deepened her treason. The Silverfang border was three leagues away, the patrols would soon notice her absence, and Darian's pride was not the kind that tolerated secrets.

But still, she stayed.

There was something about Riven that made leaving feel like losing something sacred. Like walking away from a song you'd waited your whole life to hear.

He rested against the wall now, half-covered in the old cloak she'd given him. The fire crackled low between them, casting shadows across the damp stone. His wound was still raw, but the color had returned to his cheeks. Strength, slow and stubborn, had begun to return to his limbs.

"Why were you alone?" Kaela asked finally.

Riven's jaw flexed. "I wasn't."

She waited, and eventually, he added, "The others are dead."

Her breath caught. "Slaughtered?"

"Betrayed." His voice was flat, but his fingers clenched around the edge of the cloak. "We were meeting... someone. A go-between from one of the Highland packs. They set us up. Lured us into a trap. Silver-edged blades in the dark."

Kaela's blood chilled. "A Highland pack? Which one?"

Riven met her eyes. "I was hoping you'd tell me."

She shook her head. "We don't even speak to your kind."

"That's what you've been told." He leaned forward, grimacing slightly from the effort. "But your people lie, Silverfang."

Kaela rose to her feet. "Careful."

"I don't mean your people like you think." Riven's voice softened. "I mean the ones who pull your strings. The ones who wrote your history. You think we're the traitors, the cursed. But we were exiled for wanting truth. For protecting it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Protecting what truth?"

He studied her, firelight dancing in his ember-red gaze."That the Silverfangs are not the pureblooded saints they pretend to be. That not all Nightmanes chose war. Some chose love. And they were punished for it."

Kaela flinched. The words struck somewhere deep and unguarded.

Some chose love.

She'd read the forbidden stories in old scrolls as a child, hidden beneath her bedsheets with a candle stub. Tales of wolves from rival packs who mated in secret, whose love birthed legends... and whose children were hunted.

"My father died fighting your kind," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.