The silence in the dungeon was the kind that hummed against the eardrums, a living, breathing stillness that made even the rats scurry in mute terror. Cold crept along the moss-lined stones, slithering across Lady Mirela's skin like a second layer of decay.
She sat motionless, bound to the wall by heavy silver chains that dulled her magic. Her ankles barely shifted without the iron clanking. Once regal, her appearance had withered silver hair tangled, violet robes dirtied and torn, and her gaunt face hollow with days spent in the pit beneath Damien Blackthorn's estate.
Her lips were dry. Her eyes are dull.
Until they weren't.
A sudden jolt ran through her spine. Her head snapped up. Her pupils vanished beneath rolling lids. The vision gripped her like claws.
First came the whisper soft as falling ash, layered with voices. Young and old. Male and female. All speaking as one:
"The moon weeps…"
Lady Mirela's body convulsed, her back arching against the chains. A forgotten tongue poured from her mouth:
"Lunaris vel'kharan seris… al'vaedin nox halari…"
The torchlight flickered as if recoiling. Shadows deepened. Flames curled inward, afraid.
"She rises," Mirela rasped, her voice her own again. "The flame-walker. The one whose breath will thaw the cursed heart."
A soundless crack rippled through the air.
And then she was no longer in the dungeon.
The vision cloaked her like a shroud. She stood in a clearing beneath a twilight sky. Silver trees bent in a phantom wind, whispering secrets of forgotten worlds. Above her, stars shimmered unnaturally bright pale compared to the looming moon.
It hung enormous and low, as though it could fall and shatter.
And then it changed.
A crescent sliced across its face like a blade. Light turned cold.
Lady Mirela fell to her knees. The air thickened with divine presence.
Then she saw Her—the Moon Goddess.
Not as painted in the old tomes, but a towering being of light and shadow, woven from starlight and silver wind. Her face was unknowable, yet familiar. Beautiful and terrible.
Her eyes locked onto Mirela.
"Mirela," the Goddess said, her voice layered echoing centuries.
"Seer of shattered fate. Your silence ends now."
"My Lady," Mirela choked, bowing low. "I kept the veil drawn, as you commanded. I shielded the bloodline—"
"The veil tears on its own," the Goddess said. "The girl stirs. The curse cracks. The reckoning bleeds through destiny's seams."
"Freya?" Mirela whispered. "She's barely more than a child."
"And yet her soul is ancient," said the Moon Goddess.
"She is the vessel. The ember left when all else turned to ash. She was never meant to be hidden."
"But Damien—"
"He is the wound," the Goddess murmured. "Born beneath my gaze, molded in defiance of it."
Mirela trembled. She remembered the night of Damien's birth—the stars had recoiled. The seers had felt it. A rupture in the divine current. A soul born of war and pain. A shadow cast long and deep.
"The boy carries his father's sins," the Goddess continued,
"But also my mark is buried deep beneath ruin."
Suddenly the sky exploded in white fire.
Visions surged through Mirela:
Freya, standing in a forest, hands wreathed in silver flame.
Wolves circling not in anger but in awe.
Damien fell to his knees before her.
His eyes are silver. His wolf, half-broken by something he couldn't name.
Blood. So much blood.
An eclipse bathing the world in shadow.
A crown, shattered.
A dagger marked with the Moon's crescent plunged into a chest she couldn't see.
A child's cry echoing in ruins.
"They will choose," the Goddess intoned.
"Not me. Not the council. Not even fate."
"But they hate each other," Mirela whispered.
"Love is not the only force that binds souls," the Goddess said.
"Pain does too. And prophecy.
Their bond is not a gift, it is a test."
The forest began to unravel, light folding into shadow.
"But beware, Seer," the Goddess warned.
"The Hollow Howl stirs. They sense her light. They hunger for it."
Mirela saw them then hooded figures kneeling around a throne of bones, their faces hidden. One lifted a crescent-shaped blade that dripped with black ichor, a grotesque mirror of the Goddess's symbol.
"They serve the Unmaker," the Goddess murmured.
"The forgotten god. The eater of light.
She is their end… or their key."
Mirela's breath caught in her throat as she saw Freya bound in shadow, a crown of ash placed on her head by the Hollow Howl. Her fire extinguished. Her eyes were empty. And Damien alone, surrounded by the dead.
But another thread split the vision—a different path.
Freya, standing tall beside Damien as a war raged around them. Her fire unleashed. His rage was tempered by her presence. Their bond was forged not in love… but survival. Purpose. Balance.
"Should they fall, the world burns," the Goddess said.
"Should they rise… they remake it."
And then, Lady Mirela saw herself again—
Dead.
Chains broken.
Blood soaking her chest.
A raven perched on her shoulder.
But her eyes—wide open. Glowing.
Still watching.
---
She screamed.
The sound vanished into the cold dungeon air.
Her chest heaved. Blood trickled from her nose and ears. Her heart thundered like a war drum inside her frail ribs.
The mark on her wrist long hidden now glowed through her torn robes. A silver crescent, burned into her flesh by the Goddess's own hand centuries ago.
A mark of divine purpose.
And a warning.
Her limbs trembled. But her spirit did not.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps approached—measured and wary. A guard entered, torch in hand, frowning as he drew near.
"Lady Mirela?" he asked, voice uncertain.
She lifted her head slowly. Her hair clung to her damp face. Her eyes burned not with madness, but with knowing. The echo of the Goddess still swam in her veins.
Her voice was hoarse, but it rang with quiet command.
"Tell your Alpha…" she rasped,
"The Moon Goddess has spoken."
The guard blinked. "What… what did she say?"
Mirela's chained hand trembled as the mark on her wrist pulsed again.
"That the girl," she whispered,
"carries her wrath…
and his redemption.
Or his ruin."
The torch dimmed.
And the shadows bowed.
But Mirela's gaze turned inward. Her mind still caught in the final words the Goddess had spoken—too sacred to speak aloud. Words not meant for Damien. Not even for Freya.
Words meant for her alone:
"You will not live to see their union... but your death will light the path."
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
She did not fear death.
But she feared what might come before it.