—
The first time Aria noticed the change, it wasn’t in her reflection or her silhouette. It was in how the cabin creaked differently beneath her feet. The weight had shifted—subtle, but undeniable. She wasn’t just moving through the world anymore.
She was *carrying it.*
At night, her dreams came slower, heavier. Full of voices she didn’t recognize and scents she hadn’t smelled since childhood—her mother’s cooking, freshly cut pine, a fireplace at the foot of her old bed. Memory bled into instinct. The child wasn’t speaking yet, but it was *communicating.*
And Aria listened.
She kept her palm pressed to the curve of her belly even in sleep, murmuring words in old pack tongue, lullabies she’d forgotten she knew. The life inside her responded with rolls and nudges, flutters like bird wings and then stronger kicks as the days stretched into weeks.
It was growing.
Faster than expected.
Too fast.
—
Zara noticed it first.
“You’re… different,” she said one morning, watching Aria wrestle a wool tunic down over her new shape.
“Helpful,” Aria grunted, tugging at the hem. “Try again.”
Zara narrowed her eyes. “I mean… your energy. It’s not just your body. Your aura’s stronger. Denser. Like it’s folding outward.”
Aria turned, frowning. “Outward?”
“Like it’s not just shielding you anymore,” Zara said. “It’s protecting *something else.*”
Aria paused. “The baby.”
Zara gave a short nod. “Wolves can’t smell you as clearly. But they *feel* you more.”
That explained the stares. The way warriors in the training yard shifted uncomfortably when she passed. It wasn’t just her belly anymore. It was presence.
A quiet, humming *power*.
“I think it’s starting to tap into you,” Zara added. “The magic. The bond. The bloodline.”
Aria sat slowly, breath catching as the baby kicked, hard enough to make her flinch. “It’s waking up.”
Zara arched a brow. “Is that excitement or fear?”
Aria looked down, fingers tracing the stretched fabric over her skin. “Both.”
—
By the time SilverCrest reached its first snowfall, Aria could barely button her coat.
The baby had grown fast—faster than the healers anticipated. Maela had checked her twice, muttering beneath her breath each time, brows furrowing.
“It’s not unhealthy,” the healer said on her last visit, “just… *accelerated.* Almost like the child is pulling strength from more than just you.”
Aria stared at the wall of herbs, unease blooming in her chest. “Like what?”
“Old blood,” Maela said, quietly. “Or old magic.”
The implication hung heavy in the air.
Draven magic.
Alpha magic.
Fated magic.
“You’ll need to start preparing,” Maela added. “The shift might come early.”
—
Aria spent her evenings walking the edges of the territory now, her hand always resting on her belly, her boots dragging faint lines in the snow behind her.
Every tree felt closer.
Every whisper of wind seemed to carry a warning.
The baby wasn’t just growing—it was *awakening.*
She could feel it in her dreams, in her breath, in the moments when the tether pulsed beneath her ribs. A flicker of Kael’s emotions would slip through—sharp regret, restless anxiety, flashes of something deeper. Something *aching.*
Zara said nothing, but she knew.
Every time Aria winced mid-step or stared off into the trees too long, Zara’s eyes would narrow.
“Still feeling him?”
Aria nodded.
“Then he’s still trying.”
—
One afternoon, Milo arrived with an offering.
It was an old SilverCrest pendant—a moonstone carved into the shape of a claw, worn smooth with time.
“Traditionally given to heirs born of war,” he said, placing it gently on Aria’s palm. “The last child to wear one grew into Alpha Doran’s second-in-command.”
Aria studied it, the soft shimmer catching in the firelight. “This child hasn’t even taken their first breath, and already people expect a legacy.”
“Because you’re making one,” Milo said. “Whether you want to or not.”
Aria traced the moonstone and slid the chain around her neck.
It was heavy.
But right.
—
The kicks came more frequently now—hard, deliberate, sometimes at night when she was just drifting off.
One evening, the baby kicked so hard it made her gasp.
Zara looked up from sharpening a blade. “That wasn’t a nudge.”
“No,” Aria said, exhaling. “That was a *statement.*”
Zara set down the knife. “What do you think it wants?”
Aria thought for a long moment. “To survive.”
Zara nodded. “Then it takes after you.”
—
But with each week of growth came more tension in the pack.
Some of the Elders grumbled about the pregnancy’s pace, whispering behind closed doors about unnatural development. Others worried about the child’s future allegiance. Kael hadn’t made another appearance, but his name carried through campfires like smoke.
Aria felt it.
The unease.
The questions.
And beneath it all—the *fear.*
They were afraid of what she was building inside her.
Not just a baby.
A legacy.
—
On the eve of the winter solstice, the entire pack gathered at the central bonfire. Aria hadn’t planned to attend—her joints ached, her back throbbed, and sleep had become a luxury. But she stood anyway, wrapped in a thick cloak, Zara beside her.
She walked through the firelit paths slowly.
And the pack stepped aside.
Not with disdain this time.
Not even with fear.
With *respect.*
They’d seen her fight off rogues.
They’d seen her bleed and heal.
They’d seen her *grow.*
And now, they saw her belly swell with the future.
Elder Niva approached and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re carrying more than a child, Aria,” she said softly. “You’re carrying a turning point.”
Aria didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
—
That night, she woke to the strongest kick yet—so strong it stole her breath and brought tears to her eyes. She curled on her side, hands cradling the movement.
“I hear you,” she whispered into the dark. “You’re coming. I’m ready.”
Outside, the snow fell silently.
Inside, Aria Vale—the once-rejected Luna, now the fiercest name in SilverCrest—lay in the dark and smiled.
Because the baby wasn’t just growing.
It was *claiming space.*
And soon… it would claim the world.
—
