The Duke of Wrentham arrived at Blackthorn Hall
in a black carriage pulled by four matched
blacks, his boots clicking on the gravel like a
metronome set to grief. He’d lost his title, his
lands, and his brother in a single night — not
to bullets or betrayal, but to the Moon’s Law:
no noble could refuse a werewolf challenge
without forfeiting bloodline rights. The law had
been written in 1783 after the Great Howl Riots,
when aristocrats tried to ban lycanthropy as a
‘social nuisance’. The Crown’s answer? Make it a
sport. Now, the elite gathered every solstice to
bet on who could survive three rounds of
enchanted combat — and who’d be the last to
remember their own name.
He wasn’t here to win. He was here to die with
dignity.
Round One: The Gauntlet of Mirrors. Twelve
contenders, all dressed in velvet and furlined
waistcoats, entered a hall lined with silvered
glass. The rules? Step on a cracked tile, and
your reflection lunges. Miss a step, and you’re
mauled by your own guilt. The Duke walked
through without flinching — until he saw his
brother’s face in the glass, grinning with fangs.
He didn’t scream. He broke the mirror with his
cane. The crowd cheered. A lady in a lace bonnet
dropped a guinea into the wagering box: ‘Duke’s
got grit, but he’ll forget his wife’s name by
dawn.’
Round Two: The Ballroom of Whispers. Contenders
danced with spectral partners — each step a
memory stolen. The Duke danced with a woman who
smelled of lavender and gunpowder. He didn’t
know her. But his hands remembered her grip. By
the third waltz, his left thumb had gone numb.
He didn’t notice until he tried to light a cigar
and his fingers wouldn’t curl. The rules: lose a
digit to a memory you can’t name, and you lose
the right to speak your own name aloud. He
didn’t cry. He lit the cigar with his teeth. The
crowd laughed. Someone shouted, ‘He’s losing his
manners faster than his soul!’
Round Three: The Hunt in the Ashen Grove. No
weapons. No rules. Just the last two standing —
the Duke and a foxhaired widow who’d eaten three
husbands and still wore their wedding rings as
earrings. The ground was laced with silver dust.
One wrong step, and your bones turned to wet
clay. The Duke moved like a blade through fog —
until he saw her pause, sniff the air, and smile.
‘You’re the one who buried the last Duke,’ she
said. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His tongue
had thickened. His ears had pointed. He didn’t
roar. He lunged.
He tore her throat out with his teeth.
The moon rose full. The crowd fell silent.
Then they erupted.
He stood there, panting, fur sprouting from his
collar, claws sinking into the earth. His
waistcoat was shredded. His cravat was gone. His
spectacles — now a cracked, muddy lens on his
nose — were the only thing left human. He looked
down. His left hand had four fingers. His right
had three. His name? He couldn’t recall it. He
knew only one thing: he’d won.
The prize? A silver locket, warm as a heartbeat.
Inside: a curl of his own hair. The rules said
the winner became the next Moon’s Warden — bound
to guard the tournament’s gates, forever. But
the real cost? He’d forgotten his wife’s face.
He’d forgotten his brother’s laugh. He’d
forgotten why he’d come.
The widow’s ring slipped from his finger as he
turned.
The crowd clapped. A gentleman in a monocle
tipped his hat. ‘Splendid show, Duke. We’ll have
you back next year — if you can remember the
date.’
He walked into the woods.
Behind him, the first snow of winter fell.
And for the first time in his life, he howled —
not in rage, not in grief — but because it felt
like the only thing left that made sense.
The locket glowed. The moon smiled.
And somewhere, in a locked drawer in London, a
new wagering ledger opened.
Next solstice: £500 on whether the Duke
remembers his own surname before the next full
moon.
