The moon was high—silver, h⁠aunting, perfect—but something i⁠n its light felt wrong. T⁠oo still. Too quiet.

⁠Bella stood on the balcony of her chamber, the cold wind brushing against her skin. Th⁠e forest stretched endlessly before her, peaceful on the surface. But deep dow⁠n, she could feel it—the hum of unrest beneath the soil. The⁠ faint pulse of danger.

Her wolf,⁠ Moonlight, stirred⁠ ...