Vereluna.

When the moon speaks, the forest listens.

But when the sun shines, its lakes sing.

And when its lakes sing, the town stirs—

Reluctantly. But inevitably.

Golden rays burned away lingering nightmares. Shop shutters rattled, bakery steam rolled through the streets, and the arrogant screeching of roosters echoed through the walls.

Vereluna’s lake glistened like a field of diamonds with the sunrise.

The streets buzzed with morning bustle, and the aroma of fresh tortillas from the comal swept through the air.

Maya slipped through the crowd, thumb brushing her bracelet. To the townsfolk, it was just another weekday. Lucky them.

Vendors hawked “must-see” spots and handmade trinkets to souvenir-hungry tourists. Eager-eyed visitors towed one another through the throng, brushing past jaded locals.

Maya knew better.

Nightmares don’t sleep when the sun rises.

She paused as she reached Café de Lago, Vereluna’s most popular coffee shop. The rattling grind of coffee beans, the hiss of espresso steam, and the delectable aroma of a poured cup—music to Maya’s senses. She let herself breathe. Just a little.

She glanced up as the entrance door burst open. MJ spilled out of the café, a concha clenched in her mouth and two coffee cups, one in each hand.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Maya crossed her arms as MJ tried to speak, words muffled by a mouthful of concha.

“Chew first, then talk, MJ.”

MJ just grinned, concha still firmly clasped in her teeth.

“Clan house. Abuela. Remember?” Maya barked.

MJ groaned, gave her a side-eye stare, and thrust the second cup into Maya’s hands. She brushed the sugar from her lips, then fell in beside Maya.

Maya brought the cup to her nose. “Mm… cinnamon.”

Her shoulders dropped.

***

The clan house stood at the edge of town. An aged den with peeling paint, its porch full of old boots and flowerpots.

A cold snap of memory: Maya felt her shoulders square, spine straightening like a reflex drill. To passersby, it was just another old house. For Maya, it was a shrine of discipline and tradition.

Boisterous clamoring echoed from inside.

Maya and MJ exchanged glances.

MJ leaned in. “Were we expecting company?”

Maya shook her head. “Not that I know of. I wonder what’s going on.”

The hunt was a secret only nahuals knew.

A secret that must be kept.

As they stepped inside, a wall of voices hit them. Mingling, bantering, overlapping like static.
Maya slipped through a knot of relatives and a mess of piled bags. The air was thick with strong coffee, raw masa, and the heat of too many bodies.

She recognized a few faces in the kitchen. Most locked in hushed, urgent talk. Her skin prickled. The closeness. The heat. The noise. It was too much. She dug her nails into her palm. MJ’s eyes darted, scanning for exits.

This was not weekday noise.

Not unless something big was coming.

They edged toward the only breathing space: the ofrenda. Quiet. Immaculate. Sacred.
Photos and mementos of lost relatives stood in silence. As if watching. Maya closed her eyes. One. Two. Three.

Her pulse softened. The house’s chaos fell away.

MJ had gone still. Eyes locked on a photo. Hands clasped. Whispers in Nahuatl escaped her lips.
Maya offered a weak smile.

“So, you can recite the chants.”

MJ didn’t look away. “I know what needs to be said. When it needs saying.”

Maya followed her gaze: MJ’s brother. She clasped her hands and whispered a chant for him.
Then, one by one, she honored the others.

Her hands trembled. She knew where her eyes would land.

They always found her.

A smiling girl, cradled by an older child on a sofa. Sweat prickled her palms. Her fingers twitched for the bracelet. Every muscle braced.

Mi Hermana. Mi nena.

Time slowed. A lifetime of unsaid things—cut short, far too soon. Reality clawed its way back in.

A thunderous knock shattered the room.

The house held its breath.

Maya and MJ wiped their tears and turned towards the rapping.

The hush was cold. Surgical.

Like a silent drill, the crowd filed into the dining room.

There she stood. Stern. Unmovable, like a mountain splitting a river. Her iron-tight braids draped down her shoulders. Fathomless eyes stilled the very air. Abuela Xochitl: Alpha of the Villalobos clan.

“Well?” Abuela Xochitl boomed.

Maya rushed forward, defaulting to the customary pleasantries. MJ followed at a stroll, offering a mocking salute. Really? While the whole clan is here?

Abuela didn’t blink.

The clan assembled.

Xochitl took her place at the head of the table, spine straight, silver hair catching shafts of sunlight.
Maya slid into the Beta’s seat on her right. Her nerves crackled. She folded her hands neatly in her lap.

A memory: the sting of a wooden rod.

Across the table, MJ rocked, foot tapping, drawing attention. Maya shot her a glare just as Abuela’s gaze sharpened.

A fist slammed the table. Silence shattered.

The clan bowed, eyes closed. No words exchanged. None were necessary. Abuela began the old greetings in Nahuatl, each syllable heavy with legacy and promises.

No one else spoke.

No one interrupted Abuela Xochitl. Not even the stars would dare.

Abuela’s midnight eyes swept the room as her final chant faded. Then, her gaze fixed on Maya, sharp enough to cut steel. She didn’t need to look up. She felt it.

“I have heard rumors circulating in town,” Xochitl said, voice filling the room. “Whispers of monsters. It is our duty to keep them that way.”

“Abuela Xochi—” Maya began, forcing calm into her voice. “I have—”

Abuela’s stare stopped her cold.

Gasps flared. All eyes landed on Maya.

Stupid! So stupid! You know better than to speak out of turn.

Fingers ached as Maya gripped her legs. The silence was total, choking the very air from her lungs. The clan’s faces twitched, minds clamoring behind pursed lips.

“We will stand guard,” Abuela Xochitl continued. “We will protect these lands as we always have. None may know but us.”

Sweat pooled behind Maya’s collar. Her fingernails dug into her thighs.
A heat in her gut spread outward, searing and sharp.

Every part of her screamed to speak. They have to know. They have to hear it.

MJ silently gestured at her in protest. Even her rebel spirit had limits. The burning sensation was unbearable. The chair screeched backwards as Maya sat up straight.

“Abuela,” Maya cracked. “There’s more than just rumors.”

What am I doing?! Doesn’t matter they have to know.

“There’s been three encounters this week. Spirits don’t cross over this frequently. Not like this.” She paused, clearing her throat. “They’re bolder. I can feel it in the air. I can feel it pulling my bones. The veil, it’s…thinning.”

The room went still. Then came the murmurs.

Great! I’m in for it now.

Eyes leaned in. Judgment hung between heartbeats. MJ shot her a look, her face pale with disbelief.

Maya braced for it. The shame was already pulling under her skin.

Stillness pressed in.

Then—Abuela smiled.

The clan felt dumbfounded, unsure, off-balance.

She’s…smiling?

“Your instincts serve you well Maya,” Xochitl said.

“Most of you will feel this pull. This ‘uneasiness’ as Maya has mentioned. In the coming nights, this will grow stronger. The incursions confirm it.”

Her voice dropped to a weighted hush.

“A Crimson moon is coming.”

Ripples surged through the clan. Maya’s heart jumped.

“A Crimson moon?”

Heads nodded. Someone whispered, “Again?”

Abuela’s voice cut through. “Yes. A rare event. But predictable. It thins the veil, drawing spirits to its edge. As it always does.”

Predictable? Maya’s skin prickled. Was this supposed to be comforting or a warning?

She swallowed, forcing words out. “It feels…different. There has to be something more.”

Abuela raised her hand, silencing debate.

“No. This is how it’s always been.”

But Maya felt her insides twist. Abuela’s words weren’t comforting. She wanted—no, needed—her feelings to be wrong.

“With the Crimson Moon approaching, we must be more vigilant.” Xochitl’s voice shifted, more ceremonial and heavier. “That is not the only reason I’ve called you all here.”

Xochitl placed a heavy hand on Maya’s shoulders.

“Maya has mastered our nahual form. Her strength is unmatched in our clan. Her loyalty, unshaken. She honors our ancestors. She carries the legacy—always.”

A shiver raced down Maya’s spine.

“Time has gripped me in more ways than one. This Crimson Moon could not have come at a better time. As it approaches, the trials ahead will demand more strength than I can give.”

Xochitl stretched out her other hand, gaze sweeping the clan. “Maya has served as Beta with strength and conviction. The clan will need that strength.”

“Hear me! At the Crimson Moon’s peak, Maya shall assume the mantle of Alpha. Head of the Villalobos clan!”

Claps fell like rain, slowly at first, then a downpour. The clan’s faces bored into Maya.

Maya sat frozen. Her knuckles were white on the edge of the seat. The heat drained from her face, replaced by the sharp tang of bile. Still, she smiled. Brittle. Mechanical.

She fixed her eyes on the table, counting the grooves and scratches to find her breath—caught between dread and duty.

Her heart screamed to run, as far as her legs could take her. But her muscles didn’t listen. The clan’s applause faded into ringing silence.

This mantle was heavy.

And there was no putting this down.