19 years ago....
The sea was screaming.
Waves slammed the cliffs like fists of gods, and lightning painted the cave in searing white. The air reeked of salt, blood, and magic. I could hardly hear myself think over the roar of the storm.
And yet, through it all —
She sang.
Naia.
On her back, legs bent, fingers clawing into soaked furs, she bled and breathed and sang like her soul was splitting in two.
Each note pulled thunder closer. Each breath made the tides rise.
I'd seen her call mist before. Fog. Rain. I'd seen her hum fish into stillness and charm birds into silence.
But this wasn't that.
This wasn't magic.
This was power.
Her voice cracked as another contraction hit her. Her belly tightened, the pain sharp in her eyes.
I dropped to my knees beside her. "Naia—look at me. You need to stop the storm. You're burning yourself out—"
"She's coming," Naia gasped. "And she is not of stillness, Thorn. She is the storm."
The next wave slammed hard enough to rattle the cave.
The ocean crept closer, water licking the stone at our feet.
"Naia," I choked, brushing her drenched hair from her face. "You're not strong enough. Let me take you back. Let the healers—"
"I was never meant for your forests babe," she whispered, her voice trembling like wind over waves. "My time was always borrowed here."
A sob broke in my chest. "Don't talk like that. We were supposed to have more."
She smiled, even as her body shook. "We had enough to make her."
Another contraction hit — hard. She arched with a cry that shook the wind itself. Her song warped, sharp and desperate. The storm answered her, the wind wailing through the cliffs like it felt her agony.
And then—
A baby's cry cut through the chaos.
Small. Fierce.
Alive.
I caught her — slippery, wriggling, radiant. Her skin gleamed faintly, like the sea had kissed her before she came.
She looked up at me with eyes not of wolf.
But of silver. Siren.
The storm stilled, just slightly and Naia exhaled a sob. "Let me see her."
I placed the child against her chest, and her trembling arms wrapped around the baby with every last shred of strength she had left. "Her name is Dwyn," she whispered, "It means wave," she said, smiling faintly.
"Dwyn?" I echoed, kneeling beside them, tears blurred my vision.
"She'll be strong," Naia said, voice soft now. "Like you. Wild like me. But she won't know it."
She brushed her finger across the baby's brow. "Don't tell her, Thorn."
I shook my head. "She deserves to know."
"She deserves to choose," she whispered. "Let her grow without fear. They won't accept her if they knew what she was." Her eyes met mine. Silver, fading. "Swear it."
"I swear," I whispered, throat raw.
Naia smiled once more and with a final breath — one that sounded more like the sea pulling back from shore —She was gone. The storm died with her, rain quieted to mist, waves retreated, mourning, and I stood in that cave, holding my daughter as the last light left her mother's eyes.
I named her Dwyn, as Naia asked. And I never told a soul the truth, not the pack, not the Luna who came after, not even Dwyn herself.
Because I had sworn. One day, the sea would call her, and when it did... she'd finally understand who she was born to be.