Selvara

The blood moon burns above the forest, fat and red, bathing the snow in the color of fresh wounds.

I breathe it in—cold, iron-sharp, alive. My breath fogs the air in slow pulls through my nose as snow settles into my white hair and melts against the warmth of my skin. The wolf pelt across my shoulders shifts with me, heavy and familiar, its presence grounding the low, restless pull coiled in my gut.

The forest knows what night this is.

My armor creaks as I move, black leather tight against my body, dark enough to vanish between the trees. My crimson eyes cut through the shadows, catching movement where none should be—too many heartbeats, too many scents tangled together beneath the clean bite of snow.

Something is out there.

I feel it in my teeth before I hear it. In the way my fingers curl near my blade, nails biting into leather as instinct snarls for release. The blood moon always strips the world down to truth—hunter and hunted, predator and prey.

I step forward, boots breaking the untouched snow with a sound that carries farther than it should. A warning. Or an invitation.

Let it run.

Let it fight.

The night is young, and I am no one’s mercy.