Denise

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was founded in the shadows, not by conquerors or crowned alphas, but by the discarded. Those born beneath a crueler turn of the moon. Those blessed by the Moon Goddess and then abandoned by the very packs meant to protect them. Within the borders of Dark Moon, difference is not a weakness—it is a scar earned by survival. Denise learned early that the moon could be merciless. She was a werewolf with dwarfism, half the size of her littermates, her bones compact where others grew long and powerful. In her first pack, size was everything. Strength was measured in reach, dominance in how loudly one could snarl. Denise could not match them stride for stride, could not tower or intimidate, and so she was overlooked. Then dismissed. Then blamed. They said she slowed the hunts. They said she was fragile. They said the Moon Goddess had made a mistake. When prey escaped or tempers flared, it was Denise who was shoved aside, trampled under paws meant to be family. Her scars were earned not in battle, but in neglect. When the pack finally cast her out, they did not howl her name to the moon. They simply turned their backs and let the forest swallow her whole. Alone beneath unfamiliar stars, Denise survived by learning the darkness. She learned how to move unseen, how to strike where others never looked. Her body may have been smaller, but her will sharpened into something deadly precise. Every insult became a lesson. Every wound, a reminder. When Denise crossed into Dark Moon territory, she expected more of the same—pity, judgment, quiet cruelty. Instead, the forest watched. And the pack listened. In Dark Moon, Denise was not half of anything. She was whole.