His entire body glowed softly, the light almost indistinguishable from the moon’s. It was not only the night sky that cast her son in white. Her lips closed and the lullaby went silent.

Her only son was six years old, the youngest of her children, yet with the pale light wreathing his round face the cast of the man he’d grow into could be glimpsed. Jaune was still, standing before the window and staring at the firmament and the moon that crowned it. It was not her Semblance that kept her quiet, only decades of creeping across forests and ruins to deliver the retribution of mankind onto the Grimm. Isabelle gently hummed a lullaby older than the Kingdoms as she tread the creaking wood panes of her home, her footsteps utterly silent. It was a Hunter’s weapon, after all, crafted for the killing of beasts all but gone. Her Blade of Mercy was rudimentary in comparison but it would never fail. The weapons of Huntsmen and Huntresses were finicky beasts, dependent on dust and prone to jamming when a mission did not allow time for proper maintenance. She disagreed with her father on many things, but not those. Her weapons awaited her in the shed outside, the crude tools that had earned her so many odd looks at Beacon. She’d oiled the leathers yesterday, feeling the moon coming in her bones, and the greatcoat she wore over them still suited her after eight children. The small village was close enough to the wilds, and there were always Grimm to be found there if one knew where to look. There was no Emerald Forest to slip into, here, but Pusel was not not Vale. Jacques had known her since Beacon, though they’d not shared a team, and so he understood that on those nights her side of the bed would be empty. The orb was full and the old blood grew restless.

A hunter’s moon, her father used to call it. Isabelle never slept on nights like these.

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