Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the hum of the moon beneath my skin. It’s a pulse that isn’t mine. A rhythm that beats louder the longer I try to ignore it. Tonight, it’s unbearable. The air feels heavy, thick with something unseen. My mark burns faintly beneath my sleeve, and I know the moment I drift off, I won’t just dream.
I’ll go somewhere else.
When sleep finally takes me, it’s not soft or slow. It hits me like a wave. Cold, electric and endless.
I open my eyes to moonlight.
The forest stretches around me, vast and silver, every leaf shining with a glow that doesn’t belong to this world. The air is alive — humming, whispering. And when I look down, I realize my hands aren’t hands anymore.
They’re paws.
My breath catches. My chest rises and
