Thomas and Sophie

4

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was founded to shelter the broken and the blessed alike—those touched by the Moon Goddess and then cast aside when their differences became inconvenient. Within Dark Moon’s borders, exile is not a sentence. It is an ending rewritten. Thomas was raised to believe elders were sacred. They were the bones of the pack, the living memory that held tradition together. His own mother, Sophie, stood among them—silver-haired, silver-furred, a voice once steady enough to still a council with a single word. She taught him to bow his head, to listen before speaking, to honor the past even when it cut deep. Then Sophie began to forget. At first it was small things. Names. Paths she had walked for decades. Daily tasks turned treacherous. During hunts she wandered, confused by shadows that had once been familiar. Whispers followed her through the pack—moon-touched, they said. A curse. A weakness. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Words spoken like verdicts. Where Sophie should have been protected, she was judged. Where she should have been honored, she was feared. Exile came quietly. No ceremony. No gratitude. Just turned backs and closed gates. Thomas’ rage burned hotter than reason. He shattered tradition with his own hands, defied the elders he had once revered, and fled into the unknown with his mother at his side. He chose blood over law. Love over obedience. If the world would not make room for Sophie, then he would tear a path through it. The journey nearly broke them. Then they found Dark Moon. A pack that did not flinch at fading memories. A sanctuary that did not measure worth by usefulness. Here, Sophie is not lost—she is remembered. Here, Thomas’ fury is tempered into purpose. Under the Dark Moon, they are no longer running. They are home.