Huntresses Of The Moon

20260113

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 7” event.

For three days now, a pack of snow-white wolves have circled the town. Each day there are more of them, and they are more desperate to get inside. But their attempts are beaten back by spear and fire.
Around me people whisper anxiously. They know the stories - how white wolves are bad luck, and a pack of them invites destruction.
So long as nobody realises the wolves are a warning, much less that a feeble old man like myself is the cause, the destruction of this place is inevitable.
I smile toothlessly at passerbys and hum incessantly. Pretend to be simple-minded and in most places you’re better than invisible. This town is no different. Even the other vagrants pay me no heed, since I’m not jostling for a good begging spot.
No need. I don’t fear the cold. And mortal food has been meaningless to me for centuries. While I eagerly accept any pennies thrown to me - it would be suspicious not to - I’ll leave them behind when I abandon the town’s remains.
Another howl, warning and mournful, splits the air and sets people shivering and reaching for protective wards. Cheap toys which won’t save them.
My magic has spread far beneath the cobbles, forming roots which thirst for the souls walking blithely through the streets. Tonight I think they will be ready. Ready to burst forth and feast upon bodies made helpless by slumber. Ahhh I can almost taste the rich ambrosia of stolen vitality. This will be a fine harvest indeed.
Shouts from the nearest wall. War-cries and the sound of metal being clashed together. With growls and whines the wolves retreat once more.
Tsk. Surely even the moon goddess must lose interest eventually. Or at least accept that she’ll never recover the power I stole from her garden. It’s mine now. And I’m putting it to far better use than she ever did.
I’m fortunate her servants can only take form beneath her light, or travelling would be tricky indeed. More fortunate still that she hasn’t been worshipped in this region for generations. Nor, it seems, are the current gods inclined to listen to her. And so I flourish.
A bow twang, followed by a shrill yelp. I smile. While sadly a mundane arrow-wound won’t stop a holy creature, I savour the sound of their pain.
Then goosebumps rise along my arms and neck as I feel danger close. A sensation almost forgotten. My head snaps around, my gaze scouring the crowd.
Her. While she looks nothing like a moon priestess, I am certain she is the threat I sense. Her small, lithe figure could easily vanish in the crowd if not for people instinctively making room for her to walk. Her build is whipcord, her stance that of a stalking predator, and her eyes - one ice-blue, one amber - glisten to a point just short of glowing in the guttering lamplight.
They’re fixed on me.
In all my centuries of stolen life, I’ve never seen garments like hers, fur-lined leathers closely tailored and covered with hundreds of tiny vibrant beads. Where did she come from? How does she know what I am?
What should I do? I’m currently at my weakest, years from my last feed and with most of my power stretched across the town. But she shows no sign of wielding magic. I should be able to overpower her - though doing so without revealing my true nature would be impossible.
While my mind races she’s continued to approach. Then she whips a dagger from a sheath behind her back and breaks into a run.
I’m out of time.
Dropping all pretence of age or infirmity I leap up and dash away. Around a corner, down an alley, across the next street, I run headlong through the crowd. Pick any direction, only keep moving.
Why can I not feel her?? My magic coats every pathway of this city, sensing all who walk its streets, yet I cannot discern where she is!
Wait.
I realise with horror why I couldn’t sense any magic from her - she is somehow guarded, cloaked, allowing her to-
A flash of silver, blue, and amber is all the warning I get before the dagger is buried in my neck. But only for a moment, then it’s pulled loose and stabbed into my gut, my arm, my chest, again and again in a furious storm of searing pain.
No runes. No insignia - at least, none that I recognise. But it is clearly a holy blade. And that stench… none other than the moon goddess.
My mortal husk sloughs away in tatters. Very well, then. If I cannot hide, and cannot run… I will end your hunt here!
With a snarl I call back my painstaking web of power, and the rush as it fills me returns my confidence. No mortal child can best me, much less so easily! I, who have cast whole cities to their graves!
Her face is twisted in a manic grin, froth bubbling at one corner of her mouth. A righteous fervour. Clear thinking will be my greatest asset here. I need only find one spot her wards do not cover, or where they are thin-
An axe strikes my neck from behind, almost severing it. She is quick to leap forward and let her dagger finish the job.
As my head rolls across the cobbles I realise my other assailant was dressed like her - and behind the axe-maiden is another, and a fourth crouched on the roof above me…
Of course. With my last moments I curse the festering mood goddess… and my own complacency.
After all, everyone… knows… wolves… hunt… in…
The last thing I hear, the end to my centuries of hunting, is a victory howl which wreathes the town in vicious righteous joy.

Prompt was “A pack of white wolves has circled the town for three days. They’re not hunting food. They’re waiting for something. Someone. Only you know what they want—because you’re the one hiding it.”