The wind whispered against the windows as midnight cloaked the Nightshade Pack's territory. I remember that night like it was yesterday. The silence was thick, nearly sacred. No patrols, no chatter.
Just the heavy breath of the forest and the occasional rustle of leaves outside the high tower window of my quarters.
That was the night, the incident happened and I invited the pack high priestess to come check out what had happened. And then she showed us a mirror of how everything has happened that night on how my Luna put our son to bed.
I stood just beyond the door, not quite ready to enter, but close enough to hear her voice float through the gap.
Soft, melodic, the kind of voice that could lull even the wildest rogue into peace. She told him a story..one we usually avoided...about ancient wolves, hidden magic, and a darkness older than our bloodline.
The Magic of Destruction.
Her words were gentle but weighty, the way only a mother could make the worst things sound beautiful.
I leaned against the stone wall, my arms crossed, listening as she kissed him goodnight and whispered, "Sleep well, sweetheart." I could almost feel her warmth from where I stood.
Then came the sound of the door closing softly, and I stepped back into the shadow. She didn't see me.
I didn't go in right away. Part of me wanted to...just to look at him, to make sure he was okay. But another part of me, the Alpha part, felt something shift in the air. Something… wrong.
It wasn't until later, long after she had gone to bed, that I heard it.
A scream.
But before that...He hadn't fallen asleep. That much I gathered later. Our boy, stubborn like his father, lay there wide awake, his fingers fidgeting with that little red toy car I gave him last moon festival.
His mind... gods, it's always racing. Always wondering, always reaching for things beyond his age.
He remembered the story, and of course, the one part that stuck with him was the forbidden magic. The boy in the tale who chanted the words and awakened something so dark the world nearly cracked.
I should have never let her read that story. Even as a metaphor. Even as a warning.
He said the words. I know because later, when I confronted the mess in his room, I could still feel the residue of those syllables lingering in the air.
"Xentha lomir talon..."
He chanted it like a joke. Like a boy playing pretend.
He even called the Moon Goddess a liar and then it happened.
His hand began to glow.
I saw it in the aftermath...the pulse of black light, the scorch marks on the blankets, the way the shadows had melted the corners of his bookshelf.
The air had become something else entirely, thick and humming, as though the room had swallowed part of the spirit realm.
My son's eyes… gods help me, his eyes glowed. Black and silver. The same eyes I've seen only in nightmares told by elders too afraid to sleep.
I imagine him staring at his hand, terrified, confused. No training. No understanding. And surrounded by power that not even full-grown Alphas should touch.
He tried to stop it. Clutched his wrist. Maybe he thought he could squeeze the magic out of himself.
Then came the voices.
"Xentha lomir talon..."
Again and again. Not his voice...something else. A hundred somethings. All whispering, chanting. Some deep. Some feminine. Some... not of this world at all.
And then he screamed.
"MOMMYYY!"
That cry—it shattered me.
I ran. I don't even remember pulling the door open. Just the cold. Just the way the light stung my eyes the moment I crossed into the room. Just the smell of burned fabric and twisted air.
But this… this is where the memory ends.
Because what I saw that night—what my son became for just a moment—isn't something I can speak of.
Not yet.
The Moon Goddess hadn't lied.
And now… now I fear she's watching us very closely.
Because the Magic of Destruction is real.
And it's inside my son.