Ray's earliest memory wasn't a face.
It was fire.
Flames licked the night sky, turning the forest orange and black. The air smelled wrong — sharp, burning, heavy with fear. Wolves howled, not in challenge, but in pain.
Three-year-old Ray clung to his father's leg, fingers buried in thick fur as the ground shook beneath them.
"Don't look," his father said.
His voice was calm, but his heartbeat wasn't. Ray could feel it — fast and furious — like thunder trapped inside a chest.
Shapes moved through the trees. Too many. Eyes glowed gold and red, circling, closing in.
"Jake has lost his mind," someone shouted.
Another voice snarled back, "This ends tonight!"
Ray didn't understand the words. He only knew his father suddenly lifted him, holding him tight against his chest.
"Listen to me, my son," his father said urgently, crouching low. His hands trembled as they framed Ray's small face. "No matter what happens, you run. You don't stop. You don't turn back."
Ray whimpered. "Papa…"
His father pressed his forehead to Ray's. "You are stronger than you know."
A deafening roar split the air.
The attack came fast.
Wolves crashed into the clearing, fur bristling, teeth bared. The peaceful sounds of the pack — laughter, shared meals, evening howls — were swallowed by chaos.
Ray's father shifted in a flash of movement, placing Ray behind him.
"Go!" he commanded.
Ray stumbled back, small feet tangling in roots. He turned just in time to see his father launch himself into the fight — powerful, fearless, refusing to fall.
Someone grabbed Ray.
A scream tore from his throat.
The grip vanished as quickly as it came. Ray hit the ground hard, rolling down a slope, branches tearing at his skin. The world spun. Noise faded.
The last thing Ray heard was his father's howl — not of rage, but of command.
Live.
Then everything went quiet.
Ray woke to silence.
The forest was dark and empty. Smoke drifted between the trees. The clearing was gone — no voices, no warmth, no pack.
"Papa?" Ray whispered.
No answer.
He cried until his throat burned. Until his eyes hurt. Until exhaustion pulled him under again.
Footsteps crunched nearby.
A shadow loomed.
Ray shrank back, heart racing.
A woman stepped into view — wild-haired, scarred, eyes sharp but not cruel. She knelt slowly, lowering herself to his level.
"Well," she muttered softly, "you're not supposed to be here."
Ray sobbed.
The woman sighed, something in her expression cracking. She carefully wrapped him in her coat, lifting him into her arms.
"Alright," she said gruffly. "Alright. I've got you."
Ray buried his face against her chest, unaware that this moment — this rescue — would change everything.
Far away, under the same moon, the Golden Moon Pack celebrated survival.
And a prophecy quietly began to breathe.