Last Moon: Rebirth, Love, and the Werewolf Rockstar

In the domain of the Moon Goddess, Mizuki had just disappeared in front of her when the deity let out a soft sigh, the kind that followed the satisfaction of a long day's work well done. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted—at least for the moment. Without turning her head, she spoke.

"How long are you planning to stay hidden?"

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. Then, as if on cue, a low, masculine chuckle echoed across the vast, ethereal space of the domain.

"Devana, how long have you known I was here?" The voice was smooth as silk, with an edge of mischief that the Moon Goddess knew all too well. He had called her Devana—the name by which only fellow deities addressed her.

A tall, slender figure stepped out of the shadows. His lavender locks tumbled over his shoulders like liquid moonlight, and his scarlet eyes gleamed with the usual playful arrogance. His gold-lined white robes swished elegantly around him, brushing the ground without so much as gathering a speck of dirt. It was as though the very fabric was enchanted—an effortless grace that only Czernobog, the Black God, could pull off.

"Of course, I've known since you arrived," she answered, finally turning around to face him. She gave him a long, appraising look, her gaze narrowing slightly as she took in the golden mask that obscured half of his handsome face. "Czernobog, I really don't understand why you prefer to cover your face. You're more handsome than Stribog."

A look of mock offense crossed his features. "Of course, I look better than that peacock," he retorted, his voice dripping with superiority.

The 'peacock' in question was, of course, Stribog, the Wind God. But aside from their distinct coloring, Czernobog and Stribog shared an uncanny resemblance—both were two of the identical triplets of Heaven, with Perun, the King of Heaven, as the third in the celestial trio.

She rolled her eyes—an action considered far too ungodly for a goddess, yet entirely fitting in the company of her fellow deities. Unknown to mortals, gods and goddesses were often far more playful, petty, and whimsical than they let on. It was not uncommon for them to act like spoiled children, especially when they were alone with one another.

"Devana, I'm worried for you," Czernobog suddenly said, his tone shifting to one of unexpected seriousness.

The words caught her off guard, making her pause. "Why would the Black God worry over me?"

He sighed, as though the answer should have been obvious. "You brought that human's soul into this domain instead of just invading their dreams," he explained, his voice matter-of-fact, like a parent scolding a child for a simple mistake.

She frowned, wondering what was so wrong with that. "So?" she asked, nonchalant.

"Devana," Czernobog called. There was no mockery in his voice now, only a hint of genuine concern. "After all the trouble you went to in order to give her a task to save your other children, hasn't it occurred to you that she won't remember anything when she wakes up?"

As though splashed with cold water, the realization hit her like a lightning bolt. She froze, her eyes widening. In her rush to preserve Mizuki's soul, she had hastily pulled her into the domain. But this domain was not meant for mortal souls. It was a place where only deities belonged. A soul that wandered into this realm would undergo a cleansing—an effect similar to reincarnation—stripping all memories away when they left.

She cursed under her breath, remembering that tiny, crucial detail she had overlooked. This was why gods and goddesses typically communicated through dreams—so they could bypass the memory wipe and leave their messages intact.

"All your hard work gone," Czernobog remarked dryly, a touch of cynicism in his voice. "Hopefully, she'll retain some memories of her past. It's not a full reincarnation, but more like a regression into the past. And just so we're clear, the children you're talking about—they're not just werewolves, right? They're lycans. Totally different species. Scarier, too."

At that moment, she marveled at her own genius—or rather, her lack of it.

"Oops," she muttered to herself, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

When Mizuki woke up, the world was silent—eerily so. She blinked, her eyelids heavy as if they had a mind of their own. Her first attempt to move was… well, an attempt, but not a successful one. She shot upright like a jack-in-the-box—only to have the world do its best impression of a Tilt-A-Whirl. The room spun violently, making her stomach protest like it had been spun in a blender.

She groaned, flopping back down with the grace of a cat who realized it might not land on its feet this time.

Soft?

Her fingers braced for cold, unforgiving pavement, but instead, they met smooth fabric. Velvet. Plush. Definitely not Parisian alleyway pavement. The sensation felt so out of place, it was as if the universe had decided to prank her with a bed instead of a cracked sidewalk.

Breathing shakily, Mizuki's eyes fought to focus. She turned her head slowly, scanning the room like she was entering an unfamiliar crime scene.

Wait a second.

This wasn't a hospital. Not some random stranger's guest room either. No. This was her childhood bedroom in Amsterdam.

Her heart skipped—no, it did a whole rhythmic cha-cha in her chest. The room, frozen in time, had that elegant white and powder pink decor that whispered of a time when she was still... innocent, naive, and blissfully unaware of heartbreak. Everything was just as she remembered. The lace curtains swayed lazily as if they'd been waiting for her return, and the watercolor paintings that once hung on her teenage walls now seemed to watch her like old friends.

A tingling sense of nostalgia crawled up her spine as she reached for the antique vanity. The same one she used to sit at, brushing her hair and convincing herself she'd have it all figured out by the time she turned 30.

The satin sheets were like a gentle, loving embrace beneath her. And the comforter? Powder pink, of course. Oh, how she remembered that color! The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, and she swore she could almost hear the old lullaby her mother used to hum while making tea.

Her heart squeezed as her eyes fell upon the small bedside table. There, a photograph of a younger, much brighter Mizuki smiled back at her—carefree and full of promises yet to be broken.

She choked out a soft whisper, "This... can't be."

Her pulse quickened. Why was she here? Why this room?

Before the storm of questions could swirl into a full-blown typhoon, her gaze fell to the small desk calendar on the bureau. October 26, 2018.

Her stomach dropped. She shuffled over, her fingers almost trembling as she picked it up. She always flipped the calendar to the next day before bed. It had to be correct. But...

Wait.

In a moment of sheer panic—or perhaps curiosity, a little of both—she swung toward the bedside table, flung open the drawer, and found what she'd been dreading.

Her brand-new pink Vertu Aster P. The phone she had bought for herself, so sleek and elegant, fresh out of the box—exactly the type of phone she adored. It had been her pride and joy, and yet... she had switched it out for something else years ago. She'd abandoned the Aster P, despite its flawless design, to get the same Samsung that Pablo had. They'd joked about it, called it their "couple phone," like the two phones somehow made them more connected.

But seeing her Aster P again—perfect, untouched—brought a flood of memories rushing back. She turned the phone on, and the screen blinked to life, showing her the same date: October 26, 2018.

Her hands went cold. The phone slipped from her fingers, landing with a soft clink on the nightstand.

She stared at it, slack-jawed, her mouth open in what could only be described as a stupefied gasp.

"Oh Lord..." she whispered. Her heart skipped, or rather, it did a full-on triple axel. She was... she was ten days away from the moment her life would change forever.

She squealed—yes, actually squealed. She jumped up, bouncing on the bed like it was New Year's Eve, her heart hammering like a drum. A second chance. A do-over. She could remember everything! Everything! The past was as clear as glass, as though it had never been shattered.

But then—wait. She froze, suddenly lost in the fog of her own mind.

Something... was missing. A memory? A feeling? A name?

A creeping sensation that she had forgotten something significant lingered like a bad song stuck in her head. Her brow furrowed as she squinted at the corner of her mind, trying to pull the missing piece into focus.

"Why does it feel like I forgot something very important?" she muttered aloud, tapping her fingers against her temple.