The wind howled through the mountain fortress like a beast unsettled, rattling ancient iron sconces and snuffing out weaker flames. Shadows danced along the cold stone walls, stretching and slithering like serpents as the fire in the great hearth crackled defiantly. The scent of burning cedar mingled with blood and old magic—powerful, pungent, and suffocating.
Alaric stood with his back to the flames, his silhouette tall and imposing. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, the hem torn and frayed, as though it had survived a war. His silver eyes reflected the firelight like a predator's, cold and calculating.
Behind him, the hooded figure remained kneeling, head bowed in submission. The messenger's breath came out in shallow puffs, visible in the frigid air. No one lingered in Alaric's presence without trembling—those who did, died quickly.
"She remembers," the figure said, voice barely more than a whisper. "Her energy has changed. The wards along the border trembled with it."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "You're certain?"
"Yes, my king. The Silvermoon girl lives. And her soul is awakening."
There was silence. Heavy. Crushing. Alaric turned slowly, approaching the obsidian war table at the center of the room. Etched with runes and carved in blood-oak, it bore an old map—aged and curling at the corners, the ink faded but still legible. His eyes scanned it like a hunter stalking prey.
"So... the moon rises again," he murmured.
He reached for a carved wolf figurine, its eyes painted red, and set it firmly upon a marked point on the map—deep within the northern forests, not far from the border of what once was Silvermoon territory.
"She's hiding there," he said darkly. "With him."
The name didn't pass his lips, but the room chilled regardless.
Lucien.
The usurper. The one who'd taken what was his. The one she had always looked at like the moon rose and set in his eyes.
"He has her," Alaric growled, fingers curling into a fist. "Of course he does."
"My king," the hooded figure dared to speak, "if she completes the Ascension Rite—"
"She won't," Alaric snapped, voice sharp as a blade. He turned, silver eyes glowing with dangerous clarity. "She won't survive long enough."
The figure nodded rapidly, bowing so low their forehead touched the icy stone.
"Shall I summon the Wraiths?"
Alaric was silent for a moment, then nodded once.
"Yes. And the Bonehowlers. Let her feel the cold hand of death breathing down her neck. Let her know that even if the goddess kisses her forehead, she is not safe from me."
He stalked toward the large, arched window at the end of the hall. Snow lashed against the glass like claws. Below, his army trained under the moonless sky—uniformed, merciless, loyal. They were the children of shadow and blood, creatures born of war.
But not all of them were human anymore.
"She thinks reclaiming a crown makes her a queen again," Alaric whispered. "She forgets. I forged that crown for her—and I can break it."
He turned to the shadows and whispered a name.
"Nyra."
From the darkest corner of the hall, a shape emerged. A woman clad in black leather and fur, with eyes like burning coal and a grin carved from wickedness itself. She walked with the grace of a panther, her presence chilling even the firelight.
"You called, my king?" she purred, bowing mockingly.
"Selene has awakened."
Nyra raised a brow, amused. "So the little moon-child lives after all. How poetic."
"I want her broken," Alaric said. "Not dead. Not yet. Take a unit. Test her. Find out how much she remembers. Make her bleed."
Nyra licked her lips. "With pleasure."
Meanwhile…
Selene's breath came in short, sharp bursts as she stood in the clearing behind the cabin, her body aching from the afternoon's brutal training. The sun had begun to dip behind the treetops, casting the world in golden light that shimmered through the canopy like fire raining from the heavens.
Lucien stood before her, chest bare and glistening with sweat. His eyes were focused, intense. Every inch of him screamed restraint, control, power.
"Again," he said simply.
Selene gritted her teeth and lunged. Their bodies collided in a rush of movement—fists, feet, breath, sweat. She struck high, low, then feinted. Lucien dodged, then caught her wrist and flipped her effortlessly onto the ground.
"Too slow."
She growled, sitting up. "You're not exactly giving me time to breathe."
"You won't have time to breathe when they come for you," Lucien snapped, his voice sharp with urgency. "They won't give you mercy. Neither will I."
Selene shoved to her feet. "Then don't."
They clashed again, harder this time. Her muscles burned, but something in her unfurled with each strike. Instinct. Memory. Muscle memory that had been buried deep was beginning to surface. She ducked a blow, twisted under his arm, and swept his legs from beneath him.
Lucien hit the ground with a thud.
He laughed.
"Better."
She offered him a hand. "You're impossible."
"And you're improving."
They stood close. Too close. Her heart pounded—not from exertion, but from the raw tension simmering just beneath the surface. Lucien's eyes flicked to her lips, then quickly away.
"You said I was a weapon," Selene said quietly. "I want to remember how to wield myself."
"You're not a weapon," Lucien replied, his voice low. "You're a storm. They tried to bind you, cage you, bury you—but you were always meant to rise."
The words stirred something fierce inside her. Something ancient and wild.
"I want more than memory," she whispered. "I want vengeance."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Then you'll have it."
Later that evening, Maera returned.
She moved like smoke, silent and swift, her robes trailing behind her like spilled ink. Her eyes were tired, but her presence was commanding.
"The veil is thinning," she said without preamble. "Your aura is too loud now, Selene. The shadows stir. I've seen omens in the flames. Blood. Fire. Bone."
"Are you saying they've found me?"
"I'm saying they're coming."
Lucien stepped forward. "How long do we have?"
Maera's gaze flicked to the stars emerging overhead. "A few nights. Perhaps less."
Selene didn't flinch. "Then I want to do the Ascension Rite. Now."
Maera's brows drew together. "It's too soon—"
"I don't care," Selene said. "If it unlocks who I was—if it makes me stronger—I'm ready."
"You don't even know what it will cost," Maera said, stepping closer. "The Rite doesn't just reveal who you were—it merges you with her. Her pain, her power, her past. There will be no going back."
"I'm not going back," Selene said firmly. "I'm going forward. With every weapon I can find."
Lucien placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn't shrug him off this time.
Maera looked between them and finally nodded. "Then we begin at moonrise. You'll need a blade. A sacrifice. And a vow."
That night, in the forest...
They gathered in a clearing beneath the full moon, its light bathing everything in ethereal silver. Stones etched with runes encircled them, forming a sacred space untouched by time.
Selene stood barefoot in the center, her hair unbound, the pendant with the Silvermoon crest resting against her chest. In her hand was the ceremonial blade she had found earlier—the one etched with moonfire silver.
Lucien stood behind her, silent, watchful. Maera moved between candles, whispering words in a language older than the stars.
"Speak your vow," Maera commanded.
Selene raised the blade.
"I am Selene of the Silvermoon bloodline," she said, voice clear. "Alpha by right, chosen by the goddess. I vow to reclaim what was stolen. I vow to avenge the fallen. I vow to never be caged again."
The moonlight pulsed.
Maera's voice rose. "Then by blood, let the past and present become one."
Selene sliced the blade across her palm. Blood dripped onto the earth, and the runes blazed to life.
A wind howled through the clearing—no, a presence. A spectral form appeared behind her, ghostly silver and radiant. A woman. Herself. But older. Wiser. Cloaked in power.
They locked eyes.
Then she stepped forward—and entered her.
Selene screamed.
Her body convulsed as centuries of memory surged through her. Battles. Betrayals. Love. Death. Fire. The birth of kingdoms. The fall of her home.
When it ended, she collapsed to her knees, panting.
Lucien was at her side in an instant.
"Selene—"
She looked up slowly. Her eyes glowed silver.
"I remember everything."
Far away, on a mountain where the stars never warmed the stone, Alaric stood at the edge of a cliff, his cloak snapping in the wind.
He felt it.
He knew.
"So… she ascends," he murmured.
Beside him, Nyra appeared, grinning like a viper.
"Shall I kill her now?"
"No," Alaric said, a cruel smile c
urling his lips. "Let her come to me. Let her believe she has power again. Let her burn the world trying to reach me."
He turned to the storm gathering in the distance.
"And then, I'll break her."