Luna was an orphan and a lycanthrope. At sixteen winters newly completed, her figure would change no more: short in stature, solid, strong without excess, as if the forest itself had shaped her. Her pale skin contrasted with the silver hair that fell down her back, and her blue eyes—too alert for someone so young—watched the world with a caution learned far too early.
The village belonged to an ancient clan, lycanthropes who did not trust only in fangs and claws, but in mana. From childhood they were guided by the elders, who taught them to feel the energy of the world and, when the time came, to open their mana veins to form a core within themselves. That ritual, performed only once in a lifetime, marked the beginning of the true path toward strength.
Some were born prodigies and achieved it in a single day. Others took years. Some never succeeded.
That night, however, was different.
Recently discovered mana crystals saturated the air with an almost visible energy, dense, vibrant. The entire village was immersed in meditation. Young ones struggled to open their internal veins; others, after years of frustration, finally felt the core form. Even the adults took advantage of that blessing to strengthen themselves.
Then the screams came.
The guards' alarm howl cut through the stillness like a blade. Dark elves. The attack had been calculated with cruel precision: a night without a full moon, when the lycanthropes lost their greatest racial advantage. Panic spread like dry fire. Improvised weapons, hurried spells, defenders running toward death.
Luna woke from her meditation with her heart pounding. Many young ones—herself included—were not yet ready to fight. The order was clear and merciless: the weakest were to flee.
She ran.
She ran alongside children and adolescents toward the forest, fear breathing down her neck. Branches lashed at her, the ground was slippery, screams were lost among the trees. In the chaos, the group scattered.
When she finally stopped, gasping, she thought she had survived.
Then she heard the footsteps.
Small. Fast. Accompanied by harsh growls.
Three goblins emerged from the darkness.
Terror froze her blood. She had never faced a monster. But fear did not erase her judgment. She had no choice. She drew the small dagger from her waist and shouted, more to give herself courage than to intimidate.
She lunged first.
The blade found flesh and one of the goblins fell, shrieking. But the other two were too much. They charged her, knocked her down, tore the weapon from her. Sharp teeth closed around her wrist. Blows. Pain. Darkness.
When she came to, she was being dragged.
The goblin lair was hidden in a network of damp, narrow caves. There, the monsters moved like rats, counting loot, dragging bodies, locking up prisoners of different races. The leader watched from above, his eyes cold, calculating. There was no open cruelty in his gaze. Only utility.
Luna was the only lycanthrope among the captives.
Fear thickened when the goblins began to separate them, to shove them without regard. All of them understood that nothing good would happen in that place.
Then the air changed.
The leader entered the main cavern, and something strange shone in his eyes: a pinkish hue, unnatural. His gaze swept over the prisoners until it stopped on Luna. He pointed at her and growled a short order.
The other goblins moved aside immediately.
Luna was torn from the group and taken to another chamber, deeper, quieter. As she moved forward, her heart pounding in her chest, she understood one thing with absolute clarity:
Her escape had not ended.
Her true trial had just begun.