Chapter 1 — Under the Ashen Moon

Alexander Krom

The cold bit deep tonight, sharper than usual, as Alexander Krom stood at the edge of the Whispering Pines. His breath fogged the air in uneven bursts, each exhale a reminder of the restless anxiety gnawing at his chest. The Ashen Moon hung low and oppressive, casting the Siberian taiga in a muted, silvery light that turned the snow and trees into shifting phantoms. The shadows seemed alive, whispering faint, half-heard words just beyond the edges of his hearing. They prickled the back of his neck, and no amount of adjusting the straps on his gear or gripping the worn handle of his hunting knife could settle the unease.

He scanned the treeline with sharp gray eyes, his focus unwavering. The taiga had always felt like a living thing, but tonight its pulse was unnatural, almost malevolent, as if the land itself had drawn in a breath and held it. Deep in his gut, something felt wrong. Dead wrong. The forest was too quiet. No rustle of animals, no distant howls of wolves. Even the notorious Whispering Pines, whose restless murmurs had earned their name, were eerily silent.

Alexander crouched, brushing his fingers over the soft bed of snow and pine needles. No tracks, not even the faintest imprint of a rabbit or fox. It was as though the forest’s creatures had vanished. He straightened, jaw tightening. Moments like this made him feel the weight of his difference—the curse of his human form. If only his blood carried the true strength of his werewolf kin. If only he could answer the Ashen Moon’s call. Perhaps then the taiga wouldn’t feel so hostile, and the lingering doubt about his ability to protect Valgrest wouldn’t gnaw at him so fiercely.

A sound broke the silence—a scream.

High-pitched, raw, and unmistakably human, it cut through the frigid night like a blade. Alexander’s heart leapt into his throat. It came from the direction of the village. Without hesitation, he took off at a sprint, boots crunching against the frozen ground. The cold air burned his lungs, but he forced himself faster, weaving through the trees with practiced ease. The scream faded, swallowed by the forest’s unsettling stillness, but its echo lingered in his mind, pushing him forward.

The massive wooden gate of Valgrest loomed ahead, its iron reinforcements glinting faintly in the Ashen Moon’s glow. The faint scent of burnt sage lingered on the air, a remnant of the protective wards the townsfolk clung to. The gate creaked open as he approached, and the guards—two werewolves in human form—gave him wary nods. Their eyes lingered on him a moment too long, the unspoken judgment clear. Alexander ignored it. There were more pressing concerns.

The town square was already swarming with people despite the late hour. Mothers clutched their children tightly, their faces pale and drawn. Others whispered in frantic tones, casting frequent glances toward the Elders’ Hall. The massive firepit in the center of the square flickered weakly, its flames struggling against the oppressive weight of the Ashen Moon.

“What’s happened?” Alexander demanded as he pushed through the crowd. His voice carried a quiet intensity that silenced the murmurs around him.

A woman staggered forward, clutching a shawl tightly to her chest. It was Elena, one of the foragers. He noticed the trembling in her hands, the streaks of tears frozen on her raw cheeks. “My son—Misha—he’s gone,” she choked out, her voice breaking. Her words tumbled over each other, frantic and fragmented. “He was just outside the house, playing in the snow. I turned away for… just a moment. And then… and then he wasn’t there. I called for him, I searched—he’s gone. Gone!”

Her knees buckled, and a neighbor caught her before she collapsed entirely. Her sobs tore through the heavy air, raw and jagged. Alexander’s chest tightened. He remembered Misha—a boy of eight with an unruly mop of hair and a mischievous smile. He liked to follow his older siblings to the edge of the forest, daring to venture farther than he should, always laughing when he was scolded. The thought of him lost—or worse—under the Ashen Moon chilled Alexander to the bone.

The whispers among the crowd grew louder. “The Ashen Moon…” “It’s starting again…” “The taiga’s curse…”

A sharp voice cut through the noise. “Silence!”

Head Elder Viktor Ivanov stepped into the square, his fur-lined cloak sweeping behind him. His weathered face, carved with deep lines of authority and age, looked as immovable as the carved wolves lining the façade of the Elders’ Hall. The townsfolk fell silent under his stern gaze.

“Elena,” Viktor said, his voice low and steady. “We will do everything in our power to find your son.” He turned to address the crowd, his tone commanding. “This is a dark night, made darker by the Ashen Moon’s rise. But we must remain vigilant. Fear will only weaken us.”

His gaze landed on Alexander, lingering a fraction too long. “If we are to weather this storm, we must all play our parts—and trust in those equipped for the task.”

The implied slight wasn’t lost on anyone. A ripple of murmurs stirred through the crowd, and Alexander felt their eyes on him, heavy with doubt. He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to remain composed.

“I’ll search the outskirts,” Alexander said firmly, stepping forward. “If there’s a trail, I’ll find it.”

Viktor’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile—condescending, calculated. “Are you certain that is wise, Alexander? Perhaps such matters are better left to those… better suited.”

The humiliation was sharp, but Alexander refused to let it show. “I know the taiga better than anyone,” he replied, his voice steady. “If Misha is out there, I’ll find him.”

For a moment, Viktor said nothing. Then he gave a curt nod. “Very well. But you will not go alone.” He gestured to two nearby guards. “Boris, Katya—accompany him. Report back the moment you find anything.”

Alexander bit back his frustration, knowing any protest would only fuel the townsfolk’s doubts. Instead, he nodded sharply and turned on his heel, the guards falling into step behind him.

They passed through the gates into the waiting shadows of the forest. The cold seemed sharper here, the silence heavier. Alexander knelt, brushing aside a thin layer of snow near the edge of the treeline. Faint tracks—small, hurried—marked the ground. His chest tightened as he rose. “This way,” he said, leading the group deeper into the taiga.

Boris muttered under his breath as they moved. “This place is cursed. We shouldn’t be here.”

Katya shot him a sharp look but said nothing. Her silence spoke louder than words. They didn’t trust this place. They didn’t trust him.

The tracks led them deeper into the Whispering Pines, where the air grew colder and the trees pressed closer together, their twisted shapes casting warped shadows. The prints scattered suddenly, as though Misha had panicked and run without direction. Alexander crouched again, studying the disturbed snow. No blood. No signs of a struggle. Just emptiness.

A faint sound reached his ears—a soft, mournful cry, barely audible over the oppressive quiet. He froze, straining to listen. “Misha?” he called, his voice sharp but uncertain.

The cry grew louder, pulling at him like a thread. Without waiting for the others, he broke into a run, weaving through the dense trees. The guards hesitated but followed reluctantly. The sound led them to a small clearing where the snow lay untouched, pristine under the moonlight.

The cry stopped. The silence returned, heavier than ever.

At the center of the clearing, the air felt thicker, colder. Alexander’s breath came in shallow bursts as he scanned the area, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his knife. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

“What is this?” Katya whispered, her voice trembling.

Before Alexander could reply, a sharp wind tore through the clearing, carrying with it a faint metallic tang. The shadows at the edge of the clearing shifted, swirling like living things. Then came the whispers—a cacophony of disjointed voices, urgent and otherworldly.

The guards froze, eyes wide with fear. Boris muttered a prayer under his breath, his hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword. Alexander forced himself to step forward, his mind racing. Whatever force had drawn them here, it wasn’t Misha. But what was it?

The wind died as suddenly as it had begun, and the whispers faded into silence. The forest stood still once more, save for the pale, mocking glow of the Ashen Moon.

“He’s not here,” Katya said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We should go.”

Alexander hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stay, to keep searching. But the trail had vanished, and the clearing offered no answers. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

As they made their way back to the village, Alexander couldn’t shake the feeling that the taiga was watching them, its gaze cold and unyielding. He didn’t know what had taken Misha, but one thing was certain: this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.