Blood of the Moon - Chapter 2

“There you are Cepnir. Come along, if we delay any longer it will be dark before reach the palace. You will get to see your little girlfriend again.”

“Mother!” In front of him, Evol giggled and the magical ball of light she had been showing him vanished.

Cepnir’s mother crouched behind him and gently scratched just above his ear.”Your father expects us back tonight. If we get back in time, we may be able to go out hunting.”

“Terrack is feeling better?”

“Not yet. He is still recovering, no matter how much he insists otherwise. Now come on, time to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye Evol.”

“Goodbye... my lord,” she replied, knowing full well that Cepnir disliked the title.

Cepnir glared back, before following his mother to the edge of the town – from where they started the trek back to the palace, defended by the Queen’s Guard...

Cepnir managed to pull himself awake, before the dream reached that memory. Outside the bed, shadows were drifting across his field of vision – though Evol was still peacefully fast asleep beside him. Temporarily confused, Cepnir opened the bed curtains and sat on the edge with his feet resting on the floor and the curtains resting on his back. Last night’s wine and the sudden movement were giving him a migraine.

One of the servants, with a candlestick in one hand and the remains of the grapes and apple in the other, noticed him awake. “I apologise m’lord if we disturbed your sleep,” she said with a curtsey. Cepnir briefly saw a frown cross her face when she noticed Evol asleep in his bed and that they were both still wearing their day clothes.

Cepnir shook his head, realising only afterwards that it made his migraine worse. “No need, I just... had a bad dream. You may continue.” Cepnir still had not gotten used to their choice of phrase. Besric, he thought it was, had said that the servants who were not descended from werewolves and the first werewolf ancestors of those who were had been servants of human lords. There was a rumour that a few had been or were descended from servants of a king of France.

The servants quietly but swiftly finished clearing the room of the remains of last night, took the candles, set up the draughts set for a new game – leaving it on one of the underused desk tables – and left a fresh set of clothes for Cepnir. Upon his request they also brought clothes for Evol, brought a jug of water and two fresh glasses and left the curtains closed. Another servant came in just as the others were leaving with the sword Cepnir had accidentally left in the library the previous night.

When they were gone, Cepnir finally pushed himself up and out of bed, his headache still there but having eased while he was sitting. Heading over to the window, Cepnir poured himself a glass of water from the jug that had been left on the table beside the window and opened the curtains by a small gap. The ground below the window was still dark, shadowed by the palace walls and the gentle hill the palace was built upon. Further out, the illuminated canopies of the plentiful trees indicated that the Sun had risen some way from the unseen horizon. As he looked, Cepnir noticed something dart back into the trees closest to his window and guessed that there was still some game to hunt beyond the walls.

After he finished his glass of water, Cepnir stripped off the clothes he had worn into bed and started to put on the clothes that had been left out for him. Many werewolves could divide their clothes into two distinct sets: clothes they wear to fit in with humans and clothes that were less decorative and more comfortable and practical when humans were not around. Cepnir did not expect to encounter any humans today.

He stood straight as he finished pulling up his leggings, noticing a sudden movement from the bed in response.

“Evol!” Cepnir cried out, embarrassed when he realised she had seen him bare.

She lifted up the bed curtain and poked her head out, flinching slightly at the increase in light. “We are going to see each other without fur or clothes after we get wed anyway. I just got to see first.”

Cepnir finished donning his clothes for the day and left the ones he had taken off neatly where his fresh clothes had been, unsure of whether or not to respond to Evol.

Evol gently eased herself to sit at the edge of the bed and took a sip from the glass of water Cepnir gave her. “When did you intend to go outside and leave me to change into fresh clothes?” she asked when Cepnir sat down beside her and put a hand on her thigh.

“I recall you mentioning that we would see each other without fur or clothes anyway. And you have already seen me without.”

Evol moved his hand from her thigh to his. “Modesty is a greater concern for me than for you. And you declined the chance last night.

“Now,” she added, cutting short Cepnir’s protest as she brought them both to their feet, “it is past time you were up and about: a prince needs to be seen. I shall see you this evening.” She pecked at his cheek with a kiss.

Suddenly Cepnir found himself in the passageway, facing the door as Evol closed it from within. Ipnac, with a bemused expression, was curled up in wolf form beside the door and Cepnir sensed the passing servants’ curiosity get the better of them as their paces slowed.

Cepnir took a breath to push down his ire and raised a hand to knock on his own door – only for a still fully clothed Evol to open the door and push his sword into his arms; saying only “your sword”, before closing the door again.

Even in wolf form, Ipnac’s amusement was plain and he yelped as he narrowly avoided Cepnir’s foot. He managed to catch up and shift to human form just as Cepnir managed to buckle on his sword belt, walking briskly towards the door to the courtyard.

“While you were asleep, your father formally requested to see you before you fed,” Ipnac put in as Cepnir fumbled at the handle, the metalwork old and stiff.

Cepnir paused in his attempts at the door, forehead resting against the wood panelling in thought before eventually replying: “Bring my father a message that I am not particularly well today and will have to forego discussing any topics he wishes to bring to my attention,” knowing full well at least one that would be brought up. “And send for a carpenter and locksmith to see to this accursed door!” Cepnir added, just before he took a stance and shoved sideways against the door. The door finally opened, the wood cracking around the handle before the latch hidden within released.

Cepnir’s attempt to be rid of Ipnac to have some space to himself failed when the captain of the Prince’s Guard delegated the tasks to two servants – to the disgruntlement of the servants left cleaning the passage and bedchambers – and followed Cepnir outside. To see Cepnir’s eye, everything was clean, but the servants were insistent on cleaning away any hint of dust or dirt in preparation for the coming night.

Ipnac kept a respectful distance as Cepnir leaned on the balcony wall, watching the werewolf warriors train. Currently crossbow bolts were being reloaded and fired on signal at targets fixed to the stone walls of the courtyard opposite from Cepnir – two teams alternating turns to fire and reload, with a small group of servants, who had been less inclined to the cleaning, collecting up the scattered projectiles after each team had three shots. Cepnir could see most of his Guard amongst them: Rucetir, while less so than many of the palace’s warriors, was too hasty in both firing and loading, leading to Coros chastising him and eventually pulling him to one side when the string slipped from the younger werewolf’s grasp and guiding him personally through the process. Ilklis and Feroc were faring better, though for differing reasons: Ilklis had foregone practice with the crossbow not long after recruitment to return to using the throwing knives which had led to his recruitment in the first place, while Feroc was strong enough to handle setting the string and the recoil of fire in his stride. Terrack had lost the tips of his fingers on one hand years prior, leaving him silently evaluating how well the training is going.

“Where is Heral?”

“I cannot say for certain: I doubt that she is still asleep and she is obviously not down there. My best guess would be that she had not heard of our report and is out hunting.”

“I recall that part of your duty was to keep track of the rest of my Guard.”

“I keep track of their ability to protect you; not what they do each and every hour.”

“And here I thought you were monitoring her especially closely. Beyond the need of your duties.”

“I...” Ipnac paused as he picked his words. “If my lord is going to continue like this, I may just leave you here and locate her myself – trailing your royal tail be damned.”

Cepnir did not respond immediately, surprised at Ipnac’s choice of words. “You are fortunate my grandfather did not pass on his ruthlessness.” There was a further pause before Cepnir sighed. “Ipnac, I... apologise. I did not sleep well and this migraine is just making my mood worse,” he said as he watched the warriors below finish their crossbow training and shift to their lycan forms. “Nonetheless... ‘my lord’?”

“I had to get through to you somehow.”

Cepnir smiled, his bad mood beginning to lift and the migraine finally easing away. As the warriors trained, Cepnir could see why Ipnac had chosen Rucetir over any other possible recruits: he was nimble, ducking under punches and getting more strikes on his sparring partners than they could on him. Ilklis was almost as quick footed, ducking under his partners’ strikes and bringing even those considerably heavier than himself to the ground with an elbow to the back and tripping them with his foot. Feroc was not as thoughtful as Ilklis or even Rucetir in how he brought down his partners – he did not need to be, almost casually throwing most over his shoulder – and he was able to endure most blows from his partners without even a sign of feeling them. Terrack, not as limited here by his handicap, was deflecting blows aimed at him to strike at the unguarded joints and using feints to get past his partners’ defences. Coros had swapped positions with Terrack and was watching from a distance, attempting to put some discipline into the combatants by pointing out Cepnir and Ipnac.

“I see now why you chose Rucetir.” Cepnir said absently to Ipnac, half of him wanting to be down there sparring with them. That half of him won as he vaulted off the balcony, shifting to lycan form to land safely. Cepnir growled a challenge and the discipline Coros had attempted to achieve swiftly crumbled as the energised werewolves each wanted to be one who fought their prince.

When the chaos ended, most of the fighters were on the ground, recovering from the mass brawl and licking their wounds. Cepnir was still standing, though barely, the energy of the melee having banished his mood, though now his joints ached and his hunger more evident. In front of him were Rucetir and Ilklis, fresher than he was, having mostly hung back from the fray. Coros and Terrack were even fresher, having stayed out of the way of the younger and more energetic werewolves, having no intention in joining in. Feroc was on the ground close to Cepnir – though he had the greater endurance he had a harder time evading strikes and was a bigger target.

“Cepnir!”

Cepnir turned around at his name being called. Ghurad had joined Ipnac on the balcony and both were looking down at him. Cepnir shifted back to human form and though the complete change was more natural and comfortable than forcing his lycan form to get a voice, it still made him stagger slightly in his exhaustion.

“Is something amiss?”

“Your father is demanding your presence,” Ipnac informed him. “He wishes to see you now.”

Cepnir sighed and made to turn back to Rucetir and Ilklis, only to find his senses briefly fading. When they returned, he found himself slung over the shoulder of a lycan, carrying him along one of the ground floor passageways as he realised what had happened.

“Feroc! I order you to let me down!” Cepnir hit his fists against Feroc’s back to emphasise his point. While he was being held he could not change out of his human form to break free, even if he had the physical strength and energy to do so.

Ipnac slowed his steps to fall behind Feroc. “Sorry, my lord. King’s orders.”

Cepnir heard a door behind him being opened and was placed back onto his feet, though not anticipating it his legs gave way and he found himself looking up at the ceiling of his father’s bedchamber. The ceiling had been painted with a mural depicting the first werewolves: one a mage with an amulet around her neck and magic flowing from her fingers, the other a warrior with a green tinted arming sword in one hand and a shortbow in the other. Cepnir had a faint recollection of Besric mentioning something about werewolf mages having been more powerful in the past. Their warriors, however, had adopted the smallsword – to better blend in with humans when necessary – and the crossbow – few werewolves could tolerate the smell or sounds of muskets (and considered them slow), the crossbow performing the task more effectively for them.

Ipnac pulled Cepnir up by his shoulders and onto one of the chairs, apologising to the King about underestimating the state Cepnir was in. When Cepnir put a hand to his head, his migraine starting up again, he was given a glass of water by Heral before she returned back to the maps laid out on the table at the centre of the royal bedchamber. Feroc was dismissed back to training while Ipnac and Ghurad took their positions beside their respective wards.

“Shall we bring them both up to speed?” Heral asked as she rolled and tied all but two maps, both left pinned flat.

The reply was cut short when Cepnir’s stomach rumbled loud enough for them all to hear.

“Ghurad, as you have already heard everything, would you go see if the stoves are still warm and if the cooks can make something for him,” Cepnir’s father requested, a smile quirking the corner of his lips. “The last thing we need is him going hungry.”

“Nonetheless,” Heral started when Ghurad closed the door behind him, “while you were out hunting, a messenger arrived and informed us that, in addition to what we knew prior, the Wildlings are attacking some of our northern settlements, here and here.” Heral pointed to the corresponding locations on the broader map. “We can only estimate the casualties, though the messenger was able to confirm that there were both male and female wildlings attacking, so some perverse fortune there.”

Cepnir had pulled his chair up to the table to see the maps more closely, Ipnac looking over his shoulder. “You failed to point this out to me earlier,” Cepnir said, twisting his head around to address Ipnac.

“This is news to me as much as it is for you. How is it that you got this information before me?” Ipnac asked Heral, looking up from the map.

“They wanted our input, but by the time you returned it was decided best to let you two rest.”

“I expect you have already made plans though.”

Heral nodded. “We are going to send a larger force than originally planned and sooner. They shall be led by Ammonc and will follow this route,” she said as she traced the route with her finger, “gathering additional warriors and resting at each settlement. It will also be safer than going straight through the wilderness and make any encounters more favourable for us. The messenger says he does not know if there have been other attacks or if anywhere else has been forewarned; so we will also be sending messengers and scouts ahead of the main force. Ammonc is with him now, deciding how many to warriors to take. They leave tomorrow.”

Ipnac, apparently pleased, nodded. “Ammonc is one of the King’s Guard,” he whispered into Cepnir’s ear before, more audible, “What about my report last night?”

“Yes... the ‘missing’ game,” Heral said, moving the smaller map of the region around the palace into clearer view. “You said that it was the two of you, Evol and Rucetir out hunting alone, without the better hunter Terrack – or even Coros – and encountered a few trails but could not find a scent. Eventually you returned, having decided that it was poachers to blame for the lack of game.”

Ipnac stiffened. “That is indeed the case.”

Heral shook her head, though not denying Ipnac’s response. “Evol and Rucetir can be excused from this foolishness, but you two... If I did not know any better, I would have believed the pair of you had never had a failed hunt in your lives.”

“I did see something move into the trees from my window earlier,” Cepnir almost reluctantly admitted, forcing himself not to try to make himself appear even slightly meek.

“There you go: the game could have been all on the other side of the palace. Next time, let the palace hunters worry about missing game – they are better judges of the situation.”

Any further comment was halted when Ghurad returned with a servant carrying Cepnir’s meal – he explained that the food had already been prepared to be taken to his room in the belief that he was still there with Evol. Ipnac and Heral sat to one side while Cepnir ate, discussing something too quietly for him to overhear. His father was reading one of the books that were in the room during the wait – with Ghurad stood just behind him and trying not to be too obvious in reading the book over the King’s shoulder.

When Cepnir was finished, his father dismissed both their guards and the servant, leaving them alone in the room. They were silent for a time, both of them aware of the uneasiness of the situation between them, until the King offered Cepnir a glass of wine – declined.

“So... you and Evol shared a bed last night. Did anything come of it?”

Cepnir shook his head. “She drank too much wine and tried to seduce me. I almost gave into my own... feelings and intoxication, but...” He shook his head again, ending his explanation.

His father refilled his own wineglass, taking a sip before placing it back down. “I suppose I should be proud that you are showing more honour and self-restraint than I had – even though it may be hazardous for our race. I ought to explain,” he added upon seeing Cepnir’s questioning look. “You were conceived before your mother and I were married and it was actually because of you that my father let us be married at all. He had picked out a different mate for me: she was beautiful, I could not deny that, and had a brilliant mind – she won at chess with me more than she lost. Oh, and her scent – that alone almost tempted me into wedding and bedding her by the morning. But... I just could not love her: she was a bit too insistent on getting close to me and she was too pensive, as if she was distracted by other thoughts. Actually... after the engagement with her was cancelled, I never saw her again...”

Cepnir glanced away during the brief lull, half tempted to try to find some excuse to escape. Instead he stayed, knowing that he should hear his father out or their relationship would suffer further.

“Your mother however,” Cepnir’s father continued, “She understood how to enjoy herself and was a fairer match for me when we played. And her charms felt more natural. She had been one of the palace hunters – hence why she liked to take you hunting once you were old enough. A pack of Wildlings had attacked our group during a nighttime hunt, killing some of my Guard and injuring others. Your mother got herself wounded protecting – saving – me, so when she was back to health I had her recruited into my Guard. That much my father agreed with at least. Your mother and I went hunting often afterwards; initially in large groups, but over time having less company until one night it was just the two of us-”

Cepnir halted his father with one hand while reaching for the glass of water with the other, starting to feel overwhelmed. Cepnir had known that there had been animosity between his father and grandfather, but he had always assumed it originally stemmed from his relationship with Evol. And then there was the relationship between his parents: finding out he was sired out of wedlock was one thing, finding out that it had happened out in the woods under moonlight was another.

“The point I am trying to make,” the King eventually continued, “is that even though she is dead, I still love your mother and I miss her, but sometimes we need to stop ourselves being chained by our feelings to do what has to be done. I am not saying that I will abandon them, but it is unjust to let others suffer for the sake of my own emotions. You will always be first in line for the throne, and I will consult you before I make a choice or partner.”

Cepnir looked down into the glass of water in his hands in thought. Eventually, he sighed and nodded his head, finally agreeing with his father on the matter. Though the points made had not been directed at him, Cepnir saw that he had been thinking and acting selfishly regarding his father’s potential remarriage.

When Cepnir took his leave, he found that both Ipnac and Heral had left.

“I believe Ipnac said they were going hunting – to prove something about the game,” Ghurad informed upon being queried. “My apologies; I did not grasp everything that he said before they left.”

Cepnir nodded and thanked Ghurad before leaving. Cepnir thought it was an odd time to go hunting: it would be a full moon and everyone would be getting ready for the night ahead.

The rest of the Prince’s Guard were walking in the opposite direction as Cepnir headed to the courtyard. Cepnir smiled at how Rucetir now appeared comfortable among them, even when dwarfed by Feroc and Ilklis who had their arms around his shoulders. They all bowed as Cepnir neared, Ilklis more extravagantly than the others and Rucetir more uncertainly.

Cepnir nodded in acknowledgement, not breaking stride until he gradually slowed and turned back around as realisation dawned on him.

Terrack was with them.



Cepnir sat on his bed, chin supported by his hands as he tried to decide what to wear. The servants had laid out on chairs different sets of fine garments for him to choose from. So far, besides the sword that had been returned to him, he had only settled on the crown to wear, for which he had only two choices: a silver circular crown engraved with images of wolves along its circumference (Cepnir did not find it comfortable to wear however) or no crown at all. The servants had offered to help him choose what to wear but Cepnir had dismissed them, distracted, and was now regretting it.

Evol had already left when Cepnir had returned, though he could still pick out her scent from the bed. It was doing nothing to help him make his decision, doing the precise opposite as it teased the back of his mind. Cepnir expected that if he was in wolf or even lycan form, where his sense of smell was stronger, he would be even worse off.

He groaned as he realised that more than the wine had been behind the previous night. Werewolves (being shapeshifting wolf-human hybrids), as well as easily losing themselves to their emotions had bodies susceptible to irregularities other species were exempt from – often hidden below the skin. One such irregularity meant that the females had unpredictable periods of heat.

Cepnir pushed himself from the bed, having to make his decision on what to wear, but still unsure where he now stood on Evol’s leaving with her parents in the morning. He also consciously wondered whether it had been wise to wish for the marriage ceremony to be as he desired – requesting that it took place on the night of Moon Fall (which in legend was the full moon under which the werewolf race first came into existence) had already been part cause for a year’s delay.

A knock at the door interrupted Cepnir’s thoughts, and when he gave permission Ipnac entered. The captain of the Prince’s Guard was in less of a suitable state than Cepnir himself was – Ipnac’s hair had been only hastily brushed down by hand and Cepnir could see specks of dirt on the clothes.

Ipnac paused after to Cepnir from the closed door, looking him up and down. “I would hope you planned to wear... something...”

“I could something alike to you.” Cepnir turned back to the assorted garments and accessories – currently he was only wearing the shirt and breeches from the morning. “Where have you and Heral been? From what I have heard, neither Coros or ilklis are pleased with your disappearance.”

“Best get you ready quickly then,” Ipnac said, looking at the clothes left by the servants and occasionally holding them up towards Cepnir. “I wanted to prove to Heral that there was more to our failed hunt than simply bad chance, so I took her with me hunting. Hence the dirt.”

“Yet you went alone, not taking even Terrack with you.”

Ipnac picked out a dark green set of garments and held them up over Cepnir. “He was preoccupied with training. Try these.”

With Cepnir’s attire chosen, Ipnac took his leave to join the rest of the Prince’s Guard. Cepnir looked himself over in the mirror: they had quickly settled on the dark green doublet and breeches with silver embroidery. The dress sword that the servants had brought back to him in the morning was sheathed in a scabbard with silver inlays. The crown and Cepnir’s engagement ring finished the assemble.

Cepnir tugged at his clothes, removing non-existent flaws, and nudged his crown in the hopeless attempt to make it rest comfortably. Finally becoming content with his appearance, Cepnir shifted to wolf form through his lycan form to preserve the state of his clothes and headed down to join with his father.



“All rise for our King Resmur and Crown Prince Cepnir.”

The doors before them were opened inwards by the servants and Cepnir was forced to blink as the light temporarily blinded him. Though the passageway behind him was lit, the walls were a darker grey than the near silver of those of the hall.

Cepnir and his father walked along the path formed by the lines of their respective Guard – Cepnir’s seven on the left, closer to the crowd, and the King’s thirteen on the right, nearer to the thrones. As the King and Prince past each, the members of the Guards (starting with the captains who had been nearest the door) followed their step to the dais, from where they formed a continuous line at a table between the crowd and the dais while their wards walked up to and stood in front of the thrones. Two servants carried a table between them and placed it before the King and Prince.

Cepnir and his father lowered themselves into their seats, wordlessly giving permission for the rest of the gathered werewolves to be seated. Cepnir took the chance to look out over the crowd from his slightly higher position. Evol and her parents were at a table near the dais with the mage representative. She was wearing a lime-green dress, embroidered with short silver ‘slashes’ and the neckline just low enough to show her amulet resting on her skin. Her hair was tied back into a bun, a thin, semicircular silver diadem over her brow.

Green, both light and dark, was the most frequent choice of colour Cepnir could see; followed by silver and grey, blue and purple, and even a few reds. Even the servants were dressed especially for the occasion, in silvers and greys with a lime green sash to identify them. Many of the clothes were on loan to those who lacked their own, and as a result there were a few instances where the clothes were too big – rarely too small; werewolves had a strong belief and enjoyment of freedom and this even carried over to their fashion sense.

An essentially identical celebration was to occur down at the nearby werewolf town – without the royalty, colourful array of clothes or the same performers but with open air and a clearer view of the moon. Other werewolf towns had their own independent and lesser celebrations ahead, and it was believed that even Wildings celebrated in some way (though many agreed it was better not to know how).

“Let the feast begin!”

Upon their King’s command, the servants carried piles of food atop silver platters around the tables, letting the guests and guards pick and choose what to eat. Though werewolves tended to prefer hunting their food (due to the thrill of the chase and the meat being fresh and warm), they saw the advantages humans did in farming. However, werewolves still preferred to eat with their hands, and so there was no silverware besides the plates and platters.

Bottles of wine and pitchers of water were already on the tables to be poured into the glasses. A small group of servants came towards the throne, one placing a pair of glasses down while the others offered a choice of wines (and water). Cepnir selected one of the weaker spirits, feeling a ghost of the morning’s migraines, while his father opted for a wine of middling strength. From his vantage point, Cepnir could see Evol pour herself a glass of water (to the brief curiosity of her parents).

A further pair of servants came to the thrones after the wine bottles were taken away, this time carrying each a covered silver platter. These were placed on the table before the King and Prince and the covers removed, leaving the royal pair their favoured foods.

When the feast met a pause – the many appetites currently sated, though with morsels of food leftover in easy reach – the King clapped once before booming out: “And now for entertainment!”

The first performance was a minstrel accompanied by a troupe of actors: as the minstrel spun a tale of the first of their race, the actors echoed his words with silently extravagant actions. Cepnir noticed Evol whispering something to her father, and from Besric’s expression concluded that the tale was fictitious or at the very least exaggerated.

The act ended to a round of applause (consisting of both clapping and howling), the performers bowing in response before returning to their tables. A series of other acts followed on afterwards; poems, songs, juggling, dancers, music and plays (including a satirical piece about the human supposition around silver bullets and werewolves), all the while servants bringing food to the spectators when signalled.

When the Lunar Priestesses finished their ceremonial dance (to some undesired forms of howling amongst the genuinely congratulatory applause), the floor in the centre of the hall was vacant while musicians in the balconies started up a slow, soft tune. As Crown Prince, Cepnir took the initiative and left the dais towards where Evol was waiting, a thousand eyes following him.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” Cepnir asked, offering his hand, palm up, to Evol.

“It would be my honour and pleasure,” Evol replied, taking Cepnir’s hand and offer and stepping away from the table.

The pair walked hand-in-hand to the centre of the floor, before stopping and turning such that they were face-to-face. They waited a few beats, Cepnir gently whispering the count, before they began to step and turn to the music.

After a moment, other pairs started to drift to the floor to dance: Ipnac and Heral and Besric and Tresca were among the first to join. Once those who were already partnered were dancing, many who were not started moving about the tables, getting partners. Cepnir watched Ilklis manage to coerce Rucetir into joining him in asking a pair of women in red dresses to dance with them.

“My offer is still open.”

Cepnir misstepped, almost sending them into a tumble before Evol managed to pull it into a turn.

“Evol...”

“I know, I know...” she whispered. “You would rather have us married first. But I am in heat now. None but the moon herself can say how long it will last or when it will come again – maybe never.”

Cepnir remained silent, leading Evol to suggest discussing it later in the night, after the celebrations. They resumed dancing as they started, until Evol smiled in humour and turned them a quarter revolution so they could both see.

Through Cepnir’s eyes, Ilklis and Rucetir had made to swap partners, but by some mischance the move had resulted in the two women dancing together, leaving Ilklis and Rucetir standing awkwardly alone.

Before they responded to their situation, the music died down into silence and the dancers stopped accordingly. The King rised from his throne and all turned to look towards him. The full moon behind him was thinly veiled by clouds, said to be a sign that the following month was uncertain – where choices and decisions would be important. One reason why Cepnir wished to delay (or so he told himself) until Moon Fall was because it had a tendency to be a clear night – a good omen.

“Centuries ago, the first of our king were born,” the King called out into the silence, arms wide, “and though the truth of our origins is lost in history and buried in myth and legend, there is a constant – a certainty. We are the Blood of the Moon. We owe our existence – our freedom – to our shared mother. We are her children. Every month, when she is at her strongest and most resplendent, we pay our respects and ask and thank her for her blessings. Tonight is such a night.”

The crowd moved further back from the dais and crest (which had already been given a wide berth throughout the evening) as the Lunar Priestesses moved into the space. Each of them fell  to two knees into an arrangement that Cepnir, from his positions with Evol at the forefront of the crowd, thought reflected the crest that was on the other side of them from him. The priestesses all clasped their hands in their laps, faces directed to the moon and eyes closed (Cepnir knew from prior experience of the same events) – except for the one furthest forward who began to speak.

“Mother Moon, we – your children – thank you for everything you have already given us: our families, our friends, our existence and our freedom. We owe you more than our mortal lives. We ask for your blessings over the coming month. For the wisdom to see the true path to freedom. For the courage to pursue freedom even through the dark. For the strength to defend our freedom from our enemies. For the selflessness to risk our freedom for those of others. Mother Moon, we thank you for the gifts you have given us – part, present and future.”

She then raised her head further, in the same movement shifting to lycan form and beginning to howl. By row, the other priestesses did likewise, adding their own voices to the wordless song – reaching a crescendo when everyone remaining joined in.

Everyone.

But one...