The cold breath of night curled around Marcel as he stood on the weathered stone balcony of his ancestral home, the wind whispering secrets only the Siroan could understand. His broad frame cast a dark silhouette against the pale light of the full moon, its glow a sovereign command in the ink-black sky. The faint streaks of silver in his hair shimmered under the lunar gaze, lending him a spectral majesty that mirrored the wild serenity of the world below.

His silver eyes, aglow like molten stars, were fixed upon the moon as though it were an old lover, one whose embrace he could never fully claim but always sought. Its light bathed the forest in a muted, spectral glow, illuminating the endless sea of treetops that swayed gently in the breeze. Shadows of the branches danced and shifted on the forest floor like ghosts, their movements slow and hypnotic, a choreography orchestrated by the moon’s pull. The air was crisp, carrying the mingled scents of pine resin, earth, and the faint metallic tang of the river winding through the forest.

Marcel leaned heavily against the carved stone railing, its surface cool against the calloused palms of his hands. He traced absent patterns in the thin layer of dew that clung to the stone, his movements slow, deliberate, as though tethered by the weight of his thoughts. The scars on his hands and forearms caught the light, pale lines etched into his skin like runes, more than a tale of battles fought and lessons learned.

Tonight, the moon felt heavier, its luminous presence pressing against him, filling the stillness with an almost sentient awareness. Marcel felt it stirring something primal within him, a slow, coiling energy that tugged at the edges of his control. He had grown accustomed to the ceaseless war between his human mind and the beast that simmered beneath, but the full moon always sharpened the line between the two. It teased the wolf within, coaxing it to the surface with promises of liberation, Marcel stood firm—an anchor amid the storm of his own nature.