The world did not return to normal after the twins were born.
Morning came, yes. The sun rose over the Eastern Pines, spilling gold across the Crescent Fang Pack lands, warming stone halls and forest paths. Birds sang. Wind moved through leaves. Life continued.
But the wolves felt it.
The Moon had cracked the night before. Even in daylight, its presence lingered like a wound that refused to close. The air was heavy, thick with something unnamed. Wolves woke uneasy, shifting in their beds, hearts beating faster than they should.
No one said it aloud.
But everyone felt afraid.
Inside the Great Hall, the Elder Council gathered earlier than usual. They sat in a wide circle, robes brushing stone, silver staffs resting against their palms.
Elder Tharos, keeper of war and combat doctrine, rested both hands on his staff, scarred knuckles pale.
Elder Maelin, guardian of territory and resources, watched the chamber like a strategist measuring losses.
Elder Corveth, keeper of prophecy and lunar records, avoided the center entirely, eyes fixed on old carvings.
Elder Nysera, overseer of healers and internal balance, sat closest to the Luna's seat.
Elder Vaelrik, master of discipline and law, remained rigid and unmoving.
These were wolves who had lived through wars, through blood moons and broken treaties. Wolves who had watched generations rise and fall.
Yet none of them met each other's eyes for long.
"The children," Elder Tharos said at last, voice low. "They should not have been born together."
Silence followed.
Elder Corveth shifted, fingers tightening on his staff. "The prophecy never spoke of twins."
"It spoke of balance," Elder Vaelrik replied. "And of destruction."
They all knew which child those words clung to.
Sammy.
Even as an infant, his presence disturbed the hall. When he slept, shadows deepened. When he cried, wolves' hearts raced, instincts screaming danger. His wolf had not emerged yet, not truly, but its presence pressed against the world like a storm waiting to break.
They did not hate him.
That was the cruelest part.
They feared him.
Across the hall, Sunny slept peacefully in his mother's arms. His breathing was calm, his warmth comforting. Wolves who passed him felt steadier, as if something unseen stitched their nerves together.
Balanced, Elder Nysera thought.
Safe.
Kaelion watched from the edge of the chamber. Alpha of the Crescent Fang Pack, feared across territories, breaker of enemy lines, the wolf who had slaughtered entire raiding parties without mercy.
Yet his jaw tightened now.
He saw the way eyes avoided his darker son. He smelled the shift in the room. Fear carried a scent. He had hunted it before.
Elyra felt it too.
The Luna rose, silver hair catching the light, eyes sharp and cold as winter stars. When she spoke, the room fell silent.
"My sons were blessed by the Moon," she said. "Both of them."
No one argued.
But doubt lingered like smoke.
The elders bowed and dispersed, their thoughts unspoken but heavy. Elder Maelin was the last to leave, pausing as if to speak, then thinking better of it.
Kaelion remained where he was, fists clenched.
"They will turn on him," he said quietly.
Elyra did not answer at once. She looked down at Sammy, cradled against her chest. His small fingers curled, gripping her robes with surprising strength.
"He feels it already," she whispered.
She was right.
As the days passed, Sammy grew restless. He cried more often than Sunny. He slept less. When strangers approached, his small body stiffened, dark eyes watching with unsettling awareness.
Inside him, something stirred.
Calamity.
The wolf did not roar. It did not rage.
It whispered.
Why do they look away?
Sammy did not understand words yet, not fully. But he understood feelings. Loneliness burned sharper than hunger. When elders passed his cradle too quickly, when wolves praised Sunny but fell silent near him, something inside tightened.
Sunny noticed too.
As they grew, the difference became clearer. Sunny laughed easily. Wolves smiled at him, touched his head, praised his calm presence. They called him Aegis without knowing why, as if the name had always belonged to him.
Sammy watched from a distance.
He tried to smile. Tried to reach out. But when he did, the air shifted, and wolves stepped back without realizing it.
At night, when the pack slept, the twins lay side by side beneath the same moonlight filtering through the den's opening.
"Why are they scared?" Sammy asked one night, his voice small.
Sunny did not know how to answer.
"They're not scared," he said finally. "They just don't understand yet."
Sammy nodded, but Calamity stirred again, restless.
They understand enough.
Training began early.
Too early.
Kaelion insisted it was necessary. Elyra agreed, though her eyes darkened each time Sammy struggled to control the power bubbling beneath his skin.
Sunny learned control quickly. He listened. He breathed. His wolf responded smoothly, a shield forming instinctively when emotions ran high.
Sammy was different.
His strength came fast, raw and overwhelming. When he struck, the ground cracked. When anger flashed, the wind howled. More than once, Kaelion had to step in, hands gripping his son's shoulders, forcing calm where none wanted to exist.
"You are not a weapon," Kaelion told him again and again. "You are my son."
But Sammy saw the fear in his father's eyes too.
The breaking point came when they were eight.
Too young to shift. Too young to awaken fully.
And yet, the fight happened.
It began as all their fights did. A challenge. A test. A need to prove something neither could name. Sunny dodged. Sammy struck harder than he meant to.
The world answered.
Darkness rolled across the sky. The ground trembled beneath their feet. Wolves cried out as power surged, uncontrolled.
Calamity roared for the first time.
Not in rage.
In pain.
The heavens darkened. The pack fell to their knees. Elders screamed warnings, staffs glowing as they tried to contain what should not exist yet.
Sunny dropped beside his brother, panic flooding his chest.
"Sammy, stop," he cried. "Please."
Sammy collapsed, sobbing, hands pressed to his head. The wolf inside him howled, tearing at its own chains.
Kaelion ended it.
With a command that shook the land, he forced both boys into unconsciousness. The sky cleared slowly. The moon hid behind clouds, as if ashamed.
That night, the elders made their decision.
Distance.
Control.
Preparation.
Sammy overheard them.
Hidden in the shadows, heart breaking, he heard Elder Vaelrik's voice most clearly.
"If Calamity awakens fully," the elder said, "the pack may not survive him."
Sammy did not cry.
Calamity did.
And far above, the Moon Goddess watched in silence, fingers tightening around fate itself.
She had made a mistake.