Page 157 of The Moonborn's Curse
There hadn't been a live birth in the tribe since she left.
The oracle, pale and thinner now, had said it softly one evening while watching the moon through trembling fingers:
"The land misses her. She nourished it. She belonged to it. And now... it grieves."
Hagan had barely slept since.
He stood at the dried stream now, dust curling around his boots. This place—once filled with chatter and birdsong—was silent. Even the insects had stopped singing.
Sighing, he started to weary walk back to the longhouse, Veyr following his lead.
The message came through the tribelink—a ripple of thought, a sudden spike of energy threading into Hagan's consciousness like a crack of light through dark clouds.
There is news about Seren.
Dain's voice. Threaded with something rare. Excitement.
Hagan froze, hackles rising though he stood in human form. His heart stuttered once—then caught fire.
What is it?
There's a wolf here. Just returned from the eastern lands. He's got news about Seren.
Hagan didn't wait.
He shifted mid-stride, clothes tearing as muscle and fur surged forward. Four paws struck the dry ground hard. He ran—wind in his ears, blood in his throat—leaping fallen logs, skimming across clearing and bramble, a blur of bronze and desperate hope.
By the time he reached the longhouse, he was already shifting back. The transformation was fluid now—too fluid. As though instinct took over before he could think.
He didn't bother with fresh clothes, sweat glistening on his skin as he stalked barefoot through the heavy wooden doors.
Dain was already waiting inside.
"Calm down," Dain said quietly, stepping forward to hand him a pair of shorts.
"How can I be calm?" Hagan growled. "Just tell me. TELL ME."
Dain held his gaze but said nothing else. Just turned and led him through the silent corridor of the longhouse, past rooms filled with warriors and maps, and into the Highclaw's private office.
Though Hagan still bore the title of Alphason, it was an open secret that he had been handling nearly all of Draken's duties for the past year. Yet even now, he had been putting off donning the official mantle.
Not while she was still gone.
At the far end of the room stood a Wolf—dusty, lean, travel-worn, his eyes alert and neck bent as the Alphason entered. The scent of a long journey clung to him like a second skin.
Hagan didn't speak.
He just looked.
And the wolf bowed his head, breath shaking. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
That's when Hagan realized he had been projecting. His aura was coiled tight, snarling beneath his skin like a leashed storm.
He exhaled sharply and drew it back, step by step, like claws retracting.
The wolf's knees seemed to steady once the pressure lifted.
"Alphason," the wolf said again, steadier now. "Sir. I heard her name. I swear on the blood of the First Moon"
