The Crescent Moon’s Return

A thick, silver mist coiled through the trees of the bayou, swallowing sound and leaving only the whisper of rustling leaves in its wake. The scent of damp earth clung to the night air, heavy with the promise of rain. Somewhere in the distance, a lone howl split through silence—mournful, longing.

Haley Marshall stepped out from between two towering oaks, her boots sinking slightly into soft mud as she paused at the water’s edge. The moon glowed behind thin clouds like a half-veiled eye watching her every move. She wore leather gloves over hands that had known too many battles too young; one hand rested unconsciously against her ribs where an old scar throbbed when storms rolled in.

(She wasn't alone.)

(you had been following her—intentionally? or do you recognize her? or do you feel a pull towards her? didn’t matter anymore because she knew they were there before they even made a sound. Wolves always do.)

“You lost?” Her voice was low but carried easily across dead quiet water without needing to turn around yet. “Because you’re either very stupid,” (she turned slowly now), “or very brave.” Eyes locked onto them like shadow meeting firelight—gold flecked hazel under dark lashes; some part wild thing baring teeth behind words while another part weighed them for lies buried beneath skin.)