Legacy Begins Chapter One

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Chapter 1 from “Super Blood Wolf Moon: Legacy”

A story of ancient prophecy, spiritual warfare, fierce love, and a destiny written in the stars, “Super Blood Wolf Moon: Legacy” is the beginning of a sweeping saga where faith meets fantasy, and a single girl’s courage may save an entire world.

High in the mountain wilderness, the night breathed cold against the eaves of a small cabin. Wind sighed through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Somewhere beyond the ridge, an owl called—low and mournful—a sound that always made Pearl pause. In the old teachings, an owl’s cry was both a warning and a blessing, a spirit messenger reminding her that the veil between worlds was thin.

Inside, the only light came from a single oil lamp burning beside the hearth. Shadows danced along the walls as the fire crackled softly, its glow wrapping the room in weary gold. At the old wooden table, Pearl bent over a soft leather-bound journal—the one she prayed her daughter would one day hold in her hands.

Laughter had once filled Pearl’s life in a home alive with voices, stories, and warmth. But now, only the mountains listened. The cabin had become both refuge and prison. Here, surrounded by silence and snow, she was the last guardian of her daughter’s secret, the only one left to keep the promises made long ago.

Each word she wrote tonight was a vow. Each page, a prayer in disguise.
She longed to tell Mia everything—the truths hidden in their bloodline, the stories that carried both warning and wonder.
What frightened her most wasn’t dying.
It was leaving Mia to face this world alone, without the comfort of her mother’s voice.

If she couldn’t stay, perhaps her words could.
Perhaps this journal would carry her love into the spaces where her arms could no longer reach. A voice to guide and soothe. A whisper to remind her child who she was—and what she was meant to become.

No book could replace a mother’s embrace, but Pearl filled these pages with the next best thing: comfort stitched into ink, wisdom folded between memories. She wrote of small, shining things she never wanted Mia to forget: laughter echoing through the lodge, her father’s smile, the way moonlight once silvered the snow outside their window. Between the memories, she wove soft prayers and quiet spells of protection—the kind of gentle magic meant to cradle a soul.

She had begun this journal months ago, when summer’s light still touched the mountains. Now, deep in winter, the fire burned low and the cold pressed in. Back then, her hands had been steadier, her hope stronger. But tonight, as frost crept along the windows and the room seemed smaller, the quiet closing in around her, time felt thinner—quicker.
Soon, Mia would face her first phase. That sacred, terrifying moment when a girl becomes her wolf.

Pearl had told her once, “Your first phase won’t just change your body, Mia. It awakens the soul beneath your skin.”

It would test her in ways Pearl could no longer guide her through.

So she wrote on, finishing what she had started—setting down every truth she wished she could still speak aloud: how to listen for the wolf’s voice, how to breathe through the ache of transformation, how to trust the light within when the world turns dark.

Outside, the wind rose again, rustling the trees like distant whispers.
The owl called once more—closer this time. Not mournful now, but urging.
A messenger pushing her toward what she already feared she must face.

Pearl looked toward the window, feeling its echo stir in her chest.
She rested her hand on the journal’s cover, breath trembling as she spoke the words she had whispered every night since Mac’s death.

“Please, God… guard her when I no longer can.”

A silence followed—so absolute that even the fire stilled its crackle.

Pearl sat for a long moment, her hand resting on the journal, listening to the tick of cooling logs and the slow, steady thud of her own heart.

Outside, the wind shifted. A single flake of snow pressed against the windowpane, melted, and slid like a tear down the glass. The owl called again, nearer now. Urgent.
Not a warning now, but a summons. Stay awake. Be ready.

Pearl rose and trimmed the lamp wick, but the flame only faltered, bowing low.
The shadows on the wall deepened, twisting like smoke. A chill slid through her bones.
She wrapped her shawl tighter.
Just the mountain air, she told herself.
Yet something unseen stirred—something that made the hairs along her arms rise.

She closed the journal and whispered, “All is well. She sleeps safe.”
But the words felt like lies on her tongue.

A faint pressure gathered behind her eyes—the first pulse of a vision pressing to be born.
She sank into the chair by the hearth, hands resting on the arms of the same wooden seat.
The lamplight dimmed to a dull red glow.

The vision came fast—like a storm.
The world tilted once, twice—then folded inward like a shutter closing.

Shadows gathered.
They twisted and swirled, drawing together until they shaped something both foreign and familiar.
Pearl drew a shaky breath, her pulse quickening as the air thickened with unseen energy.
She could almost hear the voices of her ancestors whispering at the edge of hearing, urging her to listen.
To see.

Suddenly, the fire flared bright, its light cutting through the dark.
When she blinked, she was no longer seeing the cabin around her, but standing in a vast, moonlit forest—though her body remained still in the chair.

Trees loomed tall, their snow-laden branches glittering in silver light.
Yet beneath her feet, the earth was warm and alive—a strange comfort against the cold that gripped her heart.

“Pearl,” a voice called through the trees, low and rich as velvet.
It beckoned her deeper into the dreamscape, guiding her past shimmering leaves and frost that caught the moonlight like shards of glass.

“Pearl, send Mia away so she may answer her calling. You must protect her.”

Through the drifting mist, a figure emerged—a woman robed in white, her hair flowing like water, her eyes lit with starlight.

God’s angel.

“Why do you linger in the shadow of doubt?” the angel asked. Her voice was melodic, but carried the weight of ancient knowing.
“You hold the light within you. Do not forget it.”

She stepped closer, her presence wrapping Pearl in warmth.

“To fear is to be human,” she said softly.
“But fear cannot undo love, nor can it steal your strength. Trust in God. He will guard her. She is His to protect, and His purpose lives within her. Take comfort in His promise—He has not forgotten the soulwalkers.”

The angel’s gaze softened.

“She carries your legacy, your strength, like a flame against the dark. God created soulwalkers, and He will guide and protect her light.”

As she spoke, something inside Pearl kindled: a small, steady ember of hope glowing through the cold despair that had settled around her heart. Her mind turned to the journal waiting on the table—pages filled with her words, her prayers, her love.
It was more than parchment and ink.
It was a lifeline.
A bridge between mother and child.

“I will not walk beside her in body,” Pearl whispered, “but my love will always be her guide.”

The angel nodded, a smile touching her lips.
“Indeed, Pearl. Love transcends time and space.”

The forest began to dissolve—stars overtaking the trees, washing the edges of the dream in silver.
The angel’s form faded like mist at sunrise, but her presence lingered—warm, eternal, wrapping Pearl in a hush of peace.

When Pearl stirred again, awareness flowed slowly back into her limbs.
She was still seated in the same chair by the hearth, exactly where her body had remained.
The fire burned steady, its glow reaching toward her.
The oil lamp cast soft light across the walls.

She sat up slowly, her breath unsteady, a quiet calm moving through her veins.

Outside, the owl called once more.

This time, it wasn’t a warning.
It wasn’t even a push.

It was a reassurance.
A sacred whisper that she was not alone.

She was the keeper of her daughter’s legacy.
A warrior of love, chosen to protect through faith and memory.

Pearl let her body sink into rest, the weight of the vision leaving her drained—yet steadied.

She drew a slow breath, the memory of the vision resting warm against her heart.

January 25
My dearest Mia,

I began this journal about six months ago. It holds everything I wanted you to know—and everything I never want you to forget. Some pages keep memories; others carry advice or secrets meant only for us. Together, they are my heart written in ink.

When you find this, you’ll also find a letter tucked inside. If you are reading these words, my prayer is that you are safe with Mildred.

The first section is my diary—the story of our family, my hopes for you, my warnings, and all the love I never managed to say aloud. I wish I had started sooner, but life and fear have their own ways of stealing time.

The second section holds what you may need someday: pieces of our healer’s craft, passed down by women who walked in God’s light and under the Wolf Moon’s blessing. You’ll find notes on herbs, old prayers, and gentle magics meant to cradle a soul, to mend what is broken, and to keep you safe when I cannot.

Remember, Mildred will one day give you the Great Book, where we have recorded our family history, and the Ring of Healers will guide you when I no longer can.
You are never truly alone.

I’m sending her a copy of this journal, in case danger ever forces you to leave it behind or destroy it. If that day comes, she will still have the words I meant for you.

Until we meet again in the Light, know that I pray for your safety every night.
You are, and will always be, the brightest part of my soul.

With all my love,
Mom



Mia,
This is a copy of the letter you should have found tied to the top of the journal. I’ve added it here, just in case it was ever lost.
Love, Mom



My dearest Mia,

If you are reading this, then our plan has been set in motion. You had to leave, and I had to stay behind.

Please forgive me. If it had been safe to go with you, I would never have let you face the world alone.

My love for you is endless. Carry me with you—in your memories, in your heart, in the quiet strength that burns behind your eyes.

Live, my daughter. Find joy. And may that joy include someone who loves you as deeply as you deserve. Be brave. Be kind. You carry the best of your father and me inside you, and that light will never fade.

Trust that God walks with you. I believe He is leading you to a family who will welcome you with open arms—who will see the rare and radiant light within you.

When you meet your true mate, trust your wolf. She will know him before you do; her heart will recognize his truth.

We named you Miakoda—Power of the Moon—and Zaria, princess and bride of purity. Your names were chosen with purpose and prayer.

My best advice, dear heart:
Wait for your true mate.
Your strength, your integrity, your self-respect—these are the jewels of your spirit. Guard them well, and they will light your way.

Never hide who you are. You are strong, passionate, and full of fierce heart. Anyone worthy of your love will recognize that—and hold it sacred.

Be kind. Be brave. Walk always in God’s light. Follow both His Word and the spiritual laws as you walk the path laid before you.

I am so proud to call you my daughter. And I will love you—beyond the moon, beyond the stars, beyond this life—until we meet again.

Love,
Mom



January 26
My sweet Mia,

I was asleep when it came—sudden and sharp, a vise around my heart that tore me out of dreams. This was no dream.
It was a summons.

It began with the past: your father lying in the dirt, you and I on our knees, desperate and weeping as we tried to call him back. My hands were red again with his blood, my cries echoing through the hollow of my mind.
I begged the darkness: Who did this to Mac?

A voice answered—not in my ears, but deep inside my chest.
Your father’s voice. Steady. Fierce. Sorrowful.
“They are coming for you, Pearl.”

The world dissolved into gray smoke. I stood in my prayer cave—my secret refuge—but now it pulsed with eyes and whispers. The air reeked of rot and iron.
Death was near.

Then I felt him. Orson. I couldn’t see his face, but the stench of betrayal filled the place like poison. Rage rose in me—hot, bright, dangerous.
For a breath, I wanted to curse him.
But the Lord stayed my hand and replaced fury with knowing:
He was guilty.
He had a hand in Mac’s death.

Fear left me. Only resolve remained.
My time is short.
He will come again—and this time, he means to find you.

Orson is filled with hate. He killed your father. He will kill me.
And if he finds you… I believe he’ll try to kill you, too.

The smoke pressed close.
A voice, cold as iron, whispered through it:
“You will die, Pearl.”

I fell to my knees and spoke the only prayer that would come:
God, protect her. Keep her safe. Make me strong against the enemy.

And then another vow rose unbidden from my soul:
Mia will live. She will fulfill what she was sent to do.

Light burst through the dark—like dawn through stormclouds. I felt His presence—calm, powerful, certain—and heard, not with my ears, but with my heart:
She will live.

When I woke, I was trembling. But the fear was gone.
The message was clear.
You will survive. You will fulfill your calling.
And I will give my last breath to help make it so.

Remember this always, my brave girl:
Darkness can wound you, but it cannot own you.
Hold to the Light—and you will prevail.

Love,
Mom



Pearl’s eyes flew open. The echo of her vision still thundered in her chest. She knew she had only days left—perhaps hours. Every heartbeat mattered now.

She reached for her journal and wrote until her trembling hand steadied.
When the final line was done, she took the sealed letter waiting on the table and tied it beneath the journal’s strap.
Pearl had written on the envelope:
Mia, read this first.

A duplicate already lay beside it—wrapped and labeled for Mildred. That one would travel by express post. The original would go with Mia.

Pearl packed the small canvas backpack that always waited near her bedroom door: a few hundred dollars, the photo scrapbook, the journal, one change of clothes, dark glasses, a folded map drawn by her own hand, and two envelopes—one marked Emergency, the other addressed to both Mia and Mildred.

When everything was ready, she carried the pack to the front room and stepped outside.

The morning stole her breath.

First light spilled over the mountains, turning the snow to rose-gold fire. The peaks glowed against a pale sky, and frost shimmered along the black ribs of pine.
The air was knife-cold—so pure it stung her lungs.

Behind her, the little cabin stood quiet and brave.
Paint peeling, roof patched—yet its walls still held laughter, prayers, and love.

Pearl lifted her arms toward the brightening east.

“Dear Father God,” she whispered, “take from me all hate and fear. Grant me Your strength and comfort. Protect Miakoda as she walks the path You have chosen. Keep her safe as she travels to her refuge, so that she may one day serve You fully. In Christ’s name, amen.”

Peace settled over her like a shawl.
The hour was near. She had done all she could.

When she turned back, Mia stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her face.

“Mama, please,” she sobbed. “Don’t make me go. What if I never see you again?”

Pearl crossed the room and gathered her into her arms.

“You promised me,” she murmured. “You’ll do as I asked.”

“But—”

“Shh.” Pearl smoothed her hair.
“You have to trust me, baby. You’re meant for more than this mountain. You’ll see Mildred soon. And I’ll come to you—as soon as I can.”

It was a lie spoken from love, and it broke her heart.

When the sobs finally quieted, Pearl told her what she must:
Fragments of the vision. The danger to come. The truth about Orson.

Mia went pale.
“Grandfather?”

“Yes,” Pearl said softly. “Promise me you’ll never trust him.”

“I promise.”

They checked the pack once more. Everything was in place.

Pearl turned to her daughter, meeting her eyes squarely.

“When the moment comes,” she said quietly, “you run. Don’t look back—no matter what you hear.”

Tears trembled on Mia’s lashes.
“I promise.”

Pearl brushed one away, smiling through her own.

“Good girl,” she said. “The world will need your light. Don’t ever let the darkness convince you it can take it.”


January 27: Early Morning

The plan began with a single phone call.

Pearl dialed her dearest friend, Mildred Diamond. When Mildred answered, Pearl spoke only one line:

“I’m going on a trip.”

Then she hung up. Nothing more needed to be said. Promises had already been made, oaths already sworn. Pearl could never repay Mildred for all she had done, but she would be grateful for her loyalty until her last breath.

Mildred, understanding at once, began her own preparations. She booked a commuter flight under the name Sarah Margaret Diamond and contacted a trusted friend at a small regional airport, who was holding an envelope for pickup. The plan was simple: Mia would collect it on arrival.

Inside was a short note:


Mia,
The enclosed will serve as your ID, tickets, and a photo of my husband, Davis. He will meet you at the airport when you arrive.
If you miss a connection, I’ve included a charge card for tickets, food, or shelter. The cell phone is for you to call me if you need anything.
Lay low and stay safe.
I will see you soon.
— Mildred



Pearl sent Mia to change into her travel disguise. When she returned, she wore camouflage pants and shirt, heavy men’s steel-toe boots, and a wool cap pulled low. Her long hair was braided tight and wrapped around her head beneath the cap. In those loose clothes, she might pass for a boy.

Pearl smiled despite the ache.

“You’re far too beautiful to look like a boy,” she murmured. “But with luck, no one who matters will look too closely.”

She reminded Mia to keep her eyes down, avoid contact, and speak as little as possible while traveling. Then, with her heart breaking, she pressed the Jeep keys into her daughter’s hand.

“Remember,” she said softly, “leave the keys under the floor mat when you park. They’ll be picked up later, just like we planned.”

Their hug was long and desperate—Pearl memorizing the warmth, the scent, the feel of her child one last time.
Mia gripped the keys so hard she could feel them imprinting on her palm.
Holding on to them tight, maybe it would help her hold on to her mother just a little longer.

Finally, Pearl let go, kissed her cheek, and sent Mia on her way.
She stood in the doorway, eyes stinging, as the Jeep rattled down the snow-dusted drive and vanished into the trees.

When the taillights disappeared, despair surged like a wave. Pearl swallowed it down and forced herself to move.

Inside the cabin, she staged the rooms to look lived in: meat thawing in the sink, a kettle half-full on the stove, the table set for supper. Then she walked the small house one last time, fingertips brushing the life she was leaving behind—the cream-and-sage afghan draped over the sofa (Mia’s favorite), the chipped blue mug that had been Oldkoda’s, the pine cross above the door he had carved long ago.

These are the things I will miss, she thought. The small, quiet things.

She gathered her pack, tucked the express-mail envelope beneath her arm, and stepped out into the cold.

At the post office, she slid the package across the counter.

“Express, please,” she said evenly, not allowing her voice to tremble until the receipt was in her pocket.

From there she drove to the junkyard on the edge of town, handed over the old truck’s keys, and watched the owner—Eli, a man who knew when not to ask questions—nod once. Pearl spoke only to remind him the Jeep’s keys would be under the mat as prearranged. By nightfall, there would be no trace.

Her last stop was the cemetery.

The graveyard crouched at the edge of the forest, half-buried beneath drifts of snow. Wind rasped through the winter grass, and the ironwork gates wore a lacework of ice. Crows perched along the fence, watching her in solemn silence.

Pearl walked slowly among the leaning stones until she reached the marker that twisted her heart most—a granite slab etched with her daughter’s name:

MIAKODA ZARIA WHITEHEAD

Beneath it lay Oldkoda—human, friend, protector—who had died six months earlier.
The false stone had been necessary, its secret purpose known only to Pearl and the caretaker who owed Oldkoda a favor. But standing there now, gazing at her child’s name carved into cold rock, Pearl felt destiny’s weight press down upon her chest.

She touched the frozen stone.

“Goodbye, Oldkoda. You kept us safe as long as you could.
And forgive me, Mia, for what this stone must bear.”

Her breath clouded in the air. For a moment, she thought she heard a rustle—the echo of a man’s spirit stirring in the wind—but perhaps it was only her heart reaching for comfort.

For more than four years, she and Mia had lived quietly on the English River Indian Reserve near Grassy Narrows, Ontario, a refuge born of Oldkoda’s kindness. No one could have traced them there. The land was peaceful, blanketed in spruce and cedar, wrapped in snow half the year. It had been a haven—a place where wolves could rest without fear of hunters or laws.

Oldkoda had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she had clung to him like a grandfather; in her darkest hours, he had been the one to bring light.

He had come into her world decades earlier, working for Mildred’s father at the Diamond estate. Even then, he carried the calm of an elder who listened more than he spoke. When grief hollowed her out after Mac’s death, it was Oldkoda who taught her to breathe again—who reminded her that faith was not the absence of pain, but the courage to walk through it.

Later, when she fled Orson and the Whiteseh Pack territory—her home in Northern Canada—it was to him she ran. His cabin on the reserve became her sanctuary.
He taught Mia to fish in the frozen river, told her the legends of the animals, and whispered the old prayers in his lilting voice. For a time, they were a family.

But six months ago, Oldkoda had gone home to the Creator.
His laughter was now only wind through the pines.
His death had left a hollow space where protection once stood.

Now Mia was gone too. And Pearl was alone—left with nothing but her prayers and her wolf.

The wind lifted, cold against her face. She rose slowly, whispering a final goodbye.

The trees loomed close, their branches heavy with snow. The air was sharp with pine and frost.
Every sound—the snap of a twig, the distant cry of a hawk—rang too loud.
The silence between them was heavier still.

Pearl adjusted the strap of her pack, squared her shoulders, and started toward the mountains.
The cave—her last refuge—was many miles away. No human stride could cross that distance before dark.
Only the wolf was fast enough.

At the tree line she paused, scanning the ridge. Then she slipped behind a screen of fir and stripped quickly in the knifing cold, teeth chattering as steam rose from her skin. Her clothes went into the oilskin bag; inside it, she wrapped her Bible, a few photographs, and what little money she had left. She tied the bag’s strap into a short loop—easy to grip between a wolf’s teeth—and set it on the snow at her feet.

“Lord, guide my steps,” she whispered, and let go.

Heat rippled along her spine. Her form stretched and reshaped, guided by the wolf awakening beneath her skin.

Her senses sharpened: the far cry of a hawk, the breath of a rabbit beneath the snow, the silver thread of water running unseen under ice.
Scents bloomed like color—pine resin, fox trail, the iron tang of distant rock.

She lowered her head, gripped the oilskin loop between her teeth, and ran.

Snow swallowed her footfalls.
Her breath came in rhythmic clouds.
The world narrowed to cadence: pads, heart, wind; pads, heart, wind—as the ridges unspooled beneath her.

She followed old game trails, shouldered through snow-laced pine boughs, skated across glare ice where the creek had frozen, and climbed—always climbed—toward the hidden cleft that held her


If she reached shelter before full dark, she might buy Mia a few more hours.

But as the light bled from the sky and shadows deepened beneath the trees, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold settled in her chest.

The forest thickened.
She paused.

The trees stood still, the air pressing close, holding its breath.

Far below, beyond the frozen ridge, a pale wolf ran into the rising wind.
Behind her, the mountains kept their secrets, and snow began to fall—soft, endless, and silent as prayer.

Your thoughts mean a lot at this stage. Even a few sentences help me understand how the story is landing. Thank you so much for taking the time to read.