Moon laid her head on the rock and dozed. Her head flopped to the side as she drifted off, and she lost awareness. She dreamed of sheep. Soft lambs, heady rams, and loving ewes. They jumped over the moon –of all things. Not Moon herself, but the porcelain orb hanging in the sky made of pitch. The soft lambs lightly leaped. The heady rams bounded in pursuit. The loving ewes daintily followed. They did not leap, or bound, or jump. They softly stepped, like elegant ladies with books on their heads, who go slow so they won’t trip. She watched the sheep as they progressed across the cratered surface of the big white moon. Moon’s eyes drifted across the spangled blanket of sky and landed on a cluster of stars. They were moving towards the moon, rapidly gaining speed and sharpness. Their points were fractured like glass from a broken mirror and were refracting the moon’s pale light like sun catchers twirling on strings attached to the eves of an attic. They arrived at the moon and began to barrage the slowly stepping ewes. They smashed and smattered and scattered the helpless ewes. The no longer leaping lambs and bounding rams watched, wailing in animal fashion their horror as their mothers and mates turned the porcelain orb in the sky a piercing ruby with their blood. The sky, a banner of stars on an endless background, once reflecting the moon’s soft light, was now a dim and bleak blanket of blood and gore, a shadow over the world. Their protection from the murky night was no more. Moon startled at the feel of a rapid tears sliding down her cheeks and falling from her chin. She looked down and gasped as the metallic scent filled her nostrils. The tears flowing from her eyes were a dark maroon. They stained her clothes and the surrounding grass. She watched as the blood flowing from her clothes slid along the grass to trickle into the nearby stream. The water that had once been like a crystal oasis on a bottle-green hill, now turned to blood and stilled as it clotted. The shrubs and plants that lined its banks shriveled and crackled as they dried up. Pitiful bleats drew Moon’s eyes back to the dull sky. The grieving lambs and rams were crowded and on a cloud drifting below the moon. The ewes blood dripped on them turning their fluffy coats a dusky crimson. The blood streamed down their coats and seeped from the clouds, raining on the bleak world. The clouds expanded till there was no more sky and only blood. Endless blood filling the air. It flooded Moon’s nostrils, her throat, her ears. She could no longer feel the air of the night tickling her skin. All was blood.

Moon jolted awake weeping and panting and sobbing in great disturbed gulps. She scrubbed her hands in frantic sweeps across her face and arms and legs and clothes, only stopping when the phantom blood was gone and her skin was raw. She let out a wheezy gasp and crumpled onto the rock. A silky, moist nose pressed lightly against Moon’s leg. She started and bolted to her feet, only to find her gentlest ewe from her flock gazing up at her. “Oh! Fern! I'm sorry, you scared me.”

Fern rubbed her fuzzy and mercifully bloodless fleece against Moon’s also bloodless legs. Moon patted her supple black head and sat down once more. “I dreamed about the Legend of the Blood Moon.”

Fern’s eyes were concerned as they gazed into Moon’s as if to say; “Again?”

“Yup. Again.” Moon rested her head on Fern’s coat, letting a tear slip down her cheek. “The death of the ewes was so vivid this time. I felt like I was there… I was there.”

Fern’s velvet nose caressed Moon’s hair, rumpling it which made Moon laugh. She looked up at the bright blue sky. It was far from the obscure and gloomy sky of her dream. The sun had risen and was fiercely illuminating the sky like a blazing torch striking a flying banner. She couldn’t imagine how she could have worried about the sky. It took care of itself. It always had; it always will. The moon was long gone, taking her nightmares of smattered and smashed ewes with it. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such thoughts anyway. The early lambs would sense her distress, scare, and cause a fray. At that thought, Moon stood on her slightly wobbly leg sand reached down to grab her staff lying nearby. Firmly grasping her staff, and with Fern in tow, she strode down the hill.

The path into town wound like a lazy serpent down the hillside, its stones still cool with morning. Fern trotted at Moon’s side, her hooves clicking softly, her fleece brushing Moon’s hand whenever her thoughts drifted too far inward. The dream clung to her like cobwebs—thin, invisible, impossible to shake.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Brackenford, the market was already in full swing. Stalls bloomed like wildflowers: bolts of dyed cloth, baskets of early pears, jars of honey so golden they seemed lit from within. The air smelled of yeast and woodsmoke and the faint metallic tang of the blacksmith’s forge.

Moon tried to let the noise swallow her unease. She greeted the baker, nodded to the potter, let Fern nose at a barrel of oats. Everything was normal. Comfortingly, stubbornly normal.

Which is why the stranger stood out immediately.

He had set himself up on an overturned crate near the well, a tall man with a coat the color of dried blood and hair like storm clouds. His voice carried above the chatter—rich, ringing, too smooth to be accidental.

“Brothers and sisters,” he called, “the signs are stirring. The moon bleeds in dreams before it bleeds in truth.”

Moon froze.

Fern pressed against her leg, uneasy.

The preacher’s eyes swept the crowd, bright and fevered. “You have felt it, some of you. The trembling in the air. The heaviness in the sky. The visions that come unbidden.”

Moon’s breath snagged in her throat. She tried to step back, but Fern nudged her forward, as if insisting she face this.

The preacher’s gaze landed on her.

Not on the crowd. Not on the sky.

Her.

“You,” he said softly, pointing with a long, pale finger. “Shepherd girl.”

Moon’s stomach dropped. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

He stepped down from the crate, boots thudding against the packed earth. Up close, his eyes were stranger still—gray, but fractured with tiny flecks of red, like embers trapped in ice.

“You’ve seen it,” he murmured. “The Blood Moon. The drowning sky. The ewes.”

Moon’s pulse hammered. “How do you know that?”

The preacher smiled, but it wasn’t comforting. It was knowing. Ancient. “Because I have seen it too.”

The market had gone quiet around them. People watched with the wary fascination of those who sense a storm but cannot yet see the lightning.

Moon swallowed hard. “It was just a dream.”

“Dreams,” he said, “are the first warnings the world gives before it tears itself open.”

Fern bleated sharply, stepping between them. The preacher regarded the ewe with a tilt of his head, as though she were a scholar interrupting a lecture.

“You keep good company,” he said. “The gentle ones always sense the truth first.”

Moon’s hands tightened around her staff. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Only to tell you this: the legend is not a story. It is a prophecy. And those who dream of it are not cursed—they are called.”

Moon felt the ground tilt beneath her.

“Called to what?”

The preacher leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo anyway.

“To witness the beginning.”

He straightened, stepping back as though the conversation were finished. “I will be in Brackenford until the next full moon. Seek me when the sky begins to dim.”

Moon shook her head. “The sky isn’t dimming.”

The preacher looked up, and for a heartbeat—just one—Moon thought she saw the blue above them flicker, as if something vast and red pressed against it from the other side.

He smiled again.

“It will.”

And then he turned, coat swirling, and walked into the crowd, which parted around him like water.

Fern nudged Moon’s hand, trembling.

Moon didn’t realize she was trembling too.

Moon didn’t go looking for answers.

They found her anyway.

Brackenford’s apothecary sat at the far end of the market street, half-hidden beneath a sagging awning of faded green canvas. The sign above the door—Ash & Honey Remedies—creaked in the breeze like an old throat clearing itself. Moon had passed it a hundred times without ever stepping inside. She preferred herbs she gathered herself, plants she knew by scent and soil.

But Fern nudged her toward the door with a firmness that brooked no argument.

“Fine,” Moon muttered. “But only for a calming draught.”

The bell above the door chimed as she entered. The air inside was thick with the perfume of dried lavender, crushed mint, and something darker—iron-rich, like the inside of a cut finger.

Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars of powders, roots, and tinctures. A cat the color of smoke watched her from atop a stack of crates, its eyes glinting like polished coins.

“Welcome,” said a voice from behind the counter.

The apothecary owner was a woman named Jalaye —her hair silvered at the temples, her hands stained with the ghosts of herbs. Her eyes were a deep, unsettling brown, the kind that seemed to read more than they should.

Moon swallowed. “I… had a dream.”

Jalaye nodded as though she’d been expecting that answer. “Many have, of late. But yours was not like theirs.”

Moon stiffened. “How do you know that?”

“Because,” Jalaye said, stepping closer, “you came in with blood on your breath.”

Moon recoiled. “There’s no blood.”

“Not real blood,” the woman said gently. “Dream-blood. Vision-blood. It clings to those who see the old things.”

Moon’s heart thudded. “The preacher said—”

“The preacher,” she interrupted with a dismissive flick of her hand, “sees only the surface. He speaks of prophecy because prophecy is dramatic. But the Blood Moon is older than prophecy. Older than scripture. Older than the first shepherd who ever named a lamb.”

Moon felt the room tilt. “Then what is it?”

Jalaye studied her for a long moment, then reached beneath the counter and drew out a small wooden box. Its lid was carved with a crescent moon split down the middle by a jagged line. She opened it. Inside lay a single object: a shard of something white and curved, like a piece of porcelain broken from a larger whole. Its surface was stained a deep, dried red. Moon’s breath caught. It looked exactly like the moon from her dream.

“This,” the apothecary said softly, “is a fragment of the First Moon.”

Moon blinked. “There was more than one?”

“Oh yes. The sky has worn many faces. But the First Moon was alive.”

Moon stared at her. “Alive?”

“Not in the way you or I are. It was a guardian. A watcher. A vessel for the ewes.”

Moon’s skin prickled. “The ewes in my dream.”

Jalaye nodded. “The First Moon held them—spirits of protection, of gentleness, of balance. When the world was young, they kept the night safe.”

Moon’s throat tightened. “What happened to them?”

She closed the box with a soft click.

“They were slaughtered.”

Moon felt the dream surge back—shattered stars, bleeding ewes, the sky drowning in red.

“By what?” she whispered.

Jalaye’s eyes darkened. “By the same thing that shattered the First Moon. A force older than kindness. Older than light. A hunger that drifts between worlds, looking for cracks.”

Moon’s hands trembled. “Why am I dreaming about it?”

“Because,” the apothecary said, “the Blood Moon does not appear to warn the world. It appears to choose someone.”

Moon’s breath hitched. “Choose them for what?”

The apothecary stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to settle into Moon’s bones.

“To mend what was broken. Or to break what remains.”

Fern bleated sharply, as if protesting the very idea.

Moon felt the weight of the words settle on her shoulders like a cloak she had never asked to wear.

The apothecary placed the wooden box in Moon’s hands.

“When the sky reddens,” she said, “bring this to me. And do not come alone.”

Moon put the wooden box in her pack and buried her hand in Fern's soft fleece, trying to forget it was there. But every step she took after that felt just a little bit heavier. The words of Jalaye and the foreign preacher hung in her head as she traded wool for bread, honey, fruit, and a new pair of shoes.

Those who dream of it are not cursed--they are called.

The Blood Moon does not appear to warn the world. It appears to choose someone.

"Oh, Fern," she whispered. "What have we gotten ourselves into?" The ewe bleated sweetly, comfortingly, and nuzzled her hand.

By the time she returned to her valley, it was late in the afternoon. Tall, thorny trees scattered around the landscape cast long shadows on the new grass. A bee lifted off its perch on a clover flower and buzzed around her head as if to welcome her home.

Moon laughed and stood up tall, calling to her flock. "Saffron! Larkspur! Olive! We're back!" Her voice echoed across the valley, bouncing off stones and crags. But no sheep loped up the path to meet her.

She gripped her staff tighter and walked purposefully down the slope. She knew she would find the flock grazing in their favorite meadow at this time of day, the one between the stream and the thicket which always had the best view of the sunset. All thoughts of the Blood Moon were forgotten as she went to find her sheep.

When she reached the meadow, the sheep were not grazing. Instead, they huddled together in the center of the thicket, shaking and staring up at her with their big dark eyes. Cyrus, the big ram, paced around the edge of the meadow with his curly horns held high.

First she made sure the flock were all accounted for: twelve ewes, seven yearlings, three newly born lambs with wobbly little legs. She went to each of them in turn, speaking softly, assuring them that they were all safe here with her. Even as she said it, she thought of the dream: ewes slaughtered, impaled, bleeding on the porcelain surface of the moon. That would not happen to this flock. Not if she could help it.

Once she was sure they were all present, she went to the ram. He snorted and stamped on the ground as she approached. "Cy," she said, "what's wrong?"

He trotted to the water and nosed the ground lightly. She looked down and saw an indentation in the reddish clay: a large paw print, four toes, visible claws. There had not been wolves in this valley since the time of Moon's many-times-great grandfather, but every shepherd knew a red wolf's tracks when they saw one.

The signs are stirring, said the preacher's voice in her head. The world is shifting.

This night, she would have to be more vigilant than ever before.

The sun sank below the horizon slowly, painting the grass red and gold with its light like so many bolts of colorful cloth. But the sheep remained restless--and so did Moon. She watched the trees carefully, wondering what was out there.

The first howl came just as the sun vanished. The wave of terror that passed over the sheep was clear to see, all of them flinching and gathering closer to their protector. She let the little lambs come right up next to her so they would be safest. She wrapped her arm around one, let the other two snuggle up in her lap. But they still shivered, and not from the chilly night air.

Nights in the valley were usually peaceful. Moon spoke to her flock, shared songs and stories of the day. But today, a tense silence filled the air, broken only by wind rustling through the treetops and whistling on the distant crags. It was easier to be brave when so many creatures relied on you.

Fern bleated at her--a question, a request. Her eyes darted from one woolly sheep to the next. They all looked at her expectantly.

"Ah," she murmured. "You want me to say something? A story?"

Fern pawed the ground exasperatedly as if to say, Of course we do!

"All right, all right." Moon remembered the story her mother had told her many years ago, when she was young, on frightening nights like this. It was an eerily relevant story to this situation, and she again thought of the preacher's talk of prophecy, of omens and signs. Nevertheless, she began telling the tale. "They say the first wolf had a pelt of crimson red. Malliel was his name, and his fangs were as long and sharp as twin sabers. He went to the forest and hunted the deer and elk in autumn, staining the leaves red with their blood. He went to the sea and hunted the whales and seals, turning the water salty with their tears."

The lambs shuddered. Moon held them tight. "He went to the meadows to hunt the sheep, but one clever young lamb learned of his coming and warned her flock. The elders of the flock made a plan to save themselves from the Great Wolf's wrath. They gathered smooth, polished stones from the river, bright bits of glass from the sea, and gleaming icicles from the frozen north, and stuck them in their wool. The light from these bright and shiny things caught the attention of Korvia, the raven constellation. He swooped down from the stars and plucked up the sheep in his talons, taking them to the starry realm where he lives."

Up in the sky, the first stars began to appear. The flock looked reverently up at them as Moon continued to speak. "Among the stars, the sheep ran away. They settled on the moon, in a beautiful crater where they lived happily. It's said you can see their hoofprints in the sky even still, tracing a path from Korvia's beak to the moon at its zenith. Malliel was furious that the sheep escaped, but he could do nothing but cry. And that is why, even today, his children howl at the moon, angry at the clever sheep who escaped them."

She looked down at the lambs she held, now drifting peacefully off to sleep. "And that's also why my mother named me Moon," she whispered softly, more to herself than to them, recalling the first time she heard this story. "Because ever since the dawn of time, the moon has protected sheep. And I'm going to protect my sheep."

She didn't mention that there was a second part to that legend, which she hadn't learned until she was older. The same story she had dreamed of for the past seven nights. The first sheep had not been safe on the moon forever.

The second howl came closer.

Moon stiffened, her hand tightening around her staff. Fern pressed against her hip, trembling so hard Moon could feel it through her clothes. The flock huddled tighter, a single breathing mass of wool and fear.

Then—footsteps. Not paws. Slow, deliberate, human.

Moon rose to her feet.

A figure emerged from the thicket, lantern held high. The flame inside burned an uncanny blue, casting the stranger’s face in shifting shadows. He was old—older than anyone in Brackenford—his hair white as frost, his skin lined like cracked river clay. But his eyes… his eyes were sharp, bright, and black as a raven’s wing.

“Moon,” he said, as though he had known her name all her life.

Fern bleated sharply, stepping in front of Moon.

The old man bowed his head to the ewe. “Daughter of the First Fleece,” he murmured. “You honor me.”

Moon’s breath caught. “Who are you?”

He lifted his lantern. The blue flame flared, and for a heartbeat Moon saw something impossible: wings—vast, shadowy, feathered—unfurling behind him like a constellation come to life.

Then they vanished.

“My name,” he said softly, “is Corren.”

Moon blinked. “Corren… like—”

“Korvia,” he finished. “Yes. The raven constellation. The shepherd of stars. The one who carried the first sheep to safety.”

Moon’s heart hammered. “But Korvia is a legend.”

Corren smiled, and the expression was both kind and unbearably sad. “Legends are simply truths that have survived long enough to forget themselves.”

He stepped closer. The sheep did not flee. They watched him with wide, reverent eyes.

“You carry his blood,” Corren said. “Your great-great-great-grandfather was my vessel. My avatar. My shadow in the mortal world.”

Moon felt the ground tilt beneath her. “That’s not possible.”

“Is it less possible than dreaming of the First Moon’s death?” he asked gently. “Less possible than a preacher who sees omens in your breath? Less possible than a shard of the First Moon resting in your pack?”

Moon’s hand flew to her bag.

Corren nodded. “You feel its pull. It recognizes you.”

Moon swallowed hard. “If my ancestor was Korvia’s avatar… then what about my great-great-great-grandmother?”

Corren’s expression shifted—something like awe, something like grief.

“She was chosen,” he said. “By Lyria, the Mother of Fleece. The one who wove gentleness into the night.”

Moon’s breath hitched. “But Lyria vanished. The stories say she died.”

“Gods do not die,” Corren murmured. “They fracture. They fade. They sleep. But they do not die.”

He lifted his lantern again. The blue flame curled upward like a beckoning finger.

“And Lyria’s last breath—her last spark—was placed in your ancestor. A human vessel. A mortal body strong enough to hold a goddess’s power.”

Moon felt something warm stir in her chest, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.

“Because the Blood Moon is not a prophecy,” Corren said. “It is a summons. A call to the descendants of those who once protected the night.”

He stepped closer, and the sheep parted for him as though he were wind moving through grass.

“You are the child of two ancient guardians,” he said. “Korvia’s sight. Lyria’s compassion. Raven and ewe. Shadow and fleece.”

Moon shook her head. “I’m just a shepherd.”

“You are the first of your line to dream of the First Moon since it shattered,” Corren said. “That is no accident.”

The wind shifted. The trees groaned. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled again—closer, hungrier.

Corren’s eyes darkened. “Malliel’s children hunt tonight. They smell the old blood in you.”

Moon’s pulse quickened. “What do they want?”

“Not you,” Corren said. “What follows you.”

He pointed to the sky. Moon looked up. The moon—normally pale and serene—flickered. Just once. A pulse of red, like a heartbeat behind a veil. Fern pressed against her, bleating in terror.

Moon felt her own breath catch. “It’s starting.”

Corren nodded. “The sky remembers what was taken from it. And it remembers who must answer.”

Moon swallowed. “What do I do?”

Corren extended his hand.

“Come with me,” he said. “There is something you must see before the moon bleeds again.”

Moon hesitated.

Fern nudged her forward.

The flock watched, silent and trembling.

Moon took Corren’s hand.

Corren raised his lantern high, and a wave of energy pulsed out of it--something between flames, stars, and feathers that surrounded Moon and her flock in a comforting light. "For the children of Lyria," he said simply. "So they do not fear while we are gone."

Moon placed her other hand on Fern's snout. "You're going to be okay," she whispered. A single tear fell from her eye for the peaceful shepherding life she knew would no longer be hers. Then she followed Corren into the night.

The darkness felt deeper than usual, shadows pressing up against her feet and splashing on her face from the flickering flame of the lantern. The wind stilled as they continued. The moths and cicadas ceased their song. Everything was silent except for the sound of her footsteps on the rock and dirt.

"Corren," Moon said, "where are we?"

"We walk the roads of shadow," he answered without turning. "Every place is touched by the night on its journey across the land. Every place is seen by the eyes of the stars."

"You mean your eyes?" she asked. He did not answer.

As they continued to walk, the darkness faded from the sticky, onyx black to a softer black, like the color of Fern's fleece. Moon could once more see her surroundings by the light of the moon and stars, and they did not look like the valley she had left. They stood in the middle of a wide, flat meadow, stretching to the horizon in every direction like a grassy sea. No trees reached above this landscape, only an array of strangely shaped stones in a circle around them.

Corren smiled, a look of nostalgia drifting across his face. "They were so young then, the creatures of this meadow. They called me, dreaming of a life free among the stars, but they had no idea what that would mean for them. Not then."

"This is the meadow?" asked Moon. "The one from the story, where you lifted the first sheep up into the stars?"

He nodded. "It is important you see the place where it began."

"Where what began? The sheep? Lyria?"

"The Blood Moon. The breaking. Your lineage." The light from the lantern cast shadows on the stones in strange shapes: crescents, horns, wings, claws. "The legends will call the Great Wolf foolish for his howling at the moon, blinded by fury, but Malliel was cleverer than that. He was not crying. He was calling."

The shadows shifted into a cluster of sharp, five-pointed stars. Moon gasped--she recognized it from her dream.

"The Great Wolf's howls called something even more vicious than he could ever be. This is the place where, thousands of years ago, a hungering force ripped a crack in the world. The moon bleeds not because it is breaking, but because it is already broken."

"And I'm supposed to fix it?"

Corren's face was unreadable even as the flickering shadows turned to scenes of death, of bones and blades and chaos. "To fix what was broken," he said. "Or to shatter what remains. This now is your choice, little fledgling, little lamb."

"But how?" A dizzy feeling lodged in the pit of Moon's stomach. She was a shepherd girl. She had no idea how to mend or break the moon.

Now he smiled, the proud expression of an ancestor seeing his descendant learning. "You will come to understand."

The meadow breathed. Not with wind—there was none—but with memory. Moon felt it the moment Corren released her hand. The air thickened, humming like a plucked string, and the circle of stones around them seemed to lean inward, listening. Corren lowered his lantern. The blue flame dimmed to a soft ember.

“This place,” he said, “remembers everything that has ever touched it. Even what the world has tried to forget.”

Moon swallowed. “It feels… alive.”

“It is. All sacred places are.”

He stepped toward the nearest stone—a tall, narrow pillar streaked with veins of silver. When he touched it, the ground shuddered beneath Moon’s feet. A sound rose from the earth. A bleat. Soft. Trembling. Ancient. Moon’s breath caught.

“The sheep?”

Corren nodded. “The First Flock. Their spirits linger here. Echoes of what they were before the breaking.”

Moon stepped closer, drawn by something she couldn’t name. The stone pulsed faintly beneath her fingertips, warm as a living creature. Images flickered behind her eyes—fleeting, fragile:

A meadow bathed in starlight. A thousand ewes grazing in peace. A moon whole and bright above them. A shadow tearing across the sky.

She gasped and stumbled back.

Corren steadied her. “Easy. The stones show only what you are ready to see.”

“But I saw—”

“The moment the First Moon cracked,” he finished. “The moment the sky learned to bleed.”

Moon pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart felt too large, too loud.

“Why me?” she whispered. “Why am I the one seeing all this?”

Corren studied her with those raven-dark eyes. “Because you are the first of your line to listen.”

Before she could respond, the ground trembled again—harder this time. The stones vibrated, humming in discord. Corren’s expression sharpened.

“They come.”

Moon stiffened. “The wolves?”

“No.” Corren lifted his lantern. The flame flared violently, casting long, jagged shadows across the meadow. “Something older.”

A crack split the air—sharp as breaking bone. Moon spun toward the sound. One of the stones had fractured down the middle, a thin red glow seeping from the break like light through a wound.

Corren swore under his breath. “The veil is thinning faster than I feared.”

Moon’s pulse hammered. “What does that mean?”

“It means the hunger Malliel called is waking.”

The crack widened with a grinding groan. The red light brightened, pulsing like a heartbeat. Moon felt heat wash over her—dry, metallic, suffocating. Then she heard it. A whisper. In her mind.

Moon…

She staggered back. “Corren—something’s speaking—”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Do not answer it.”

The whisper grew louder, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

Moon squeezed her eyes shut. “It knows my name.”

“It knows your blood,” Corren said.

The crack split wider with a deafening snap. A gust of hot wind blasted outward, carrying the scent of iron and ash. Moon shielded her face. When she looked again, something moved behind the stone.

A shape.

A silhouette of impossible angles, shifting like a star collapsing in on itself.

Moon’s stomach twisted. “What is that?”

Corren’s voice was barely a whisper. “A fragment of the hunger that shattered the First Moon. A piece of the thing that devours worlds.”

The shape pressed against the crack, warping the air around it. Moon felt her feet sliding forward against her will.

Corren yanked her back. “Do not listen!”

“I’m not trying to!” she cried. “It’s pulling me!”

The red light flared, blinding. The shape lunged.

Corren thrust his lantern forward. The blue flame exploded outward, forming a barrier of shimmering feathers. The shape recoiled with a shriek that rattled Moon’s bones.

“Run!” Corren shouted.

Moon didn’t hesitate. She sprinted across the meadow, heart pounding, the whisper still clawing at her mind.

Behind her, the stones groaned. The crack widened. The red light surged.

Corren’s voice echoed after her.

“Find your flock! Protect them! The night is breaking!”

Moon ran faster.

The whisper followed.

You cannot run from the sky…