The snows fell harder as Luceris pushed through the barren, twisting trails of the Ashenvale borderlands. His horse, a black stallion bred for war, trudged forward with a resolute rhythm, nostrils steaming in the frigid night air.
Luceris had left behind everything — the towering walls of Ashenvale, his mother's sorrowful eyes, even the final scornful grin of Calder. Each mile felt like the closing of another door, slamming shut on his childhood, his identity, and the family he thought would protect him.
Now the woods seemed to whisper around him, as if ancient spirits watched from the hollows of the oaks. The path narrowed until brambles clawed at his cloak, and ice bit through his boots.
I am nothing now, he thought grimly. An exile. A prince without a throne.
But the pendant at his throat, hidden beneath layers of wool, pulsed with a strange warmth — reminding him that the story was not done.
Hours blurred together. The rhythm of hooves, the crunch of snow, the sigh of the wind: it was all that kept him anchored. His mind, meanwhile, drifted, plagued by memories.
His father's voice in the great hall, once booming with laughter and promise.
His mother's lullabies, sung over a restless crib, scented with moonflowers.
Kayde's fierce loyalty, too little, too late.
He forced the thoughts away, eyes forward.
Suddenly, the hairs on his neck stood on end.
A rustle from the undergrowth, too sharp to be wind. A snap — a branch — someone moving.
Luceris pulled the horse to a halt. The stallion's ears twitched, nostrils flaring.
"Who's there?" Luceris called, voice low, hand drifting to the hunting knife at his belt.
Nothing answered but silence.
Then a whistle — thin and almost mocking — cut through the trees. Shadows burst from the brush, men clad in rough furs and piecemeal armor. Their blades flashed with the dull glint of iron, already stained from other raids.
Bandits.
Luceris counted four. Maybe more hiding.
"Off the horse," the leader barked, a savage grin splitting a scarred face. "And leave the cloak. Looks warm."
Luceris's mind screamed run, but his body refused. These were no wolves of his kingdom; they were common brigands, and they meant to rob him or worse.
"I have nothing for you," Luceris replied coldly, voice steady.
The leader snorted. "Everyone's got something."
He advanced, brandishing a notched sword. The others circled, cutting off escape routes.
Luceris's heart pounded. His blood roared in his ears.
He could see the blows before they came, a dance of death unspooling in his mind — where had he learned that? He didn't know. Instincts, old and deep, rose like a tide inside him.
The first bandit lunged. Luceris twisted in the saddle, drew his blade in a single, fluid motion, and slashed across the man's wrist. Blood spattered the snow.
A second attacker lunged from the side, axe raised. Luceris blocked with his forearm, the pain jarring, but he pushed through, gutting the man with a quick, savage stroke.
For a heartbeat, time slowed. He saw the shock in the men's eyes — this was no helpless lordling.
But numbers would win out. The third bandit struck him across the back, and Luceris felt white-hot agony as he tumbled from the saddle into the snow. His knife skidded away.
A boot slammed into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. Another blow, this time to his temple, turned the world to spinning darkness.
He tasted copper, dizzy and gasping. The leader stepped over him, sword poised.
"Should've left the cloak," the man sneered.
Luceris tried to stand, but his limbs were heavy, refusing him. The pendant at his neck burned, flaring like a brand. He thought he heard a voice — distant, echoing — Stand, heir. Stand.
He couldn't. The darkness pulled him down.
The sword descended.
A blur of movement slammed into the bandit from the side — a massive wolf, pure white, fangs dripping crimson. It tore the leader's throat open in a single savage bite, tossing him aside like a rag doll.
Luceris tried to focus through the haze. No — not a wolf.
A man, with white hair bound into warrior's braids, wearing black steel marked with a silver wolf's head. His blade sang through the air, cutting down the last two attackers before they could flee.
Luceris could only blink, stunned.
The warrior turned, eyes cold and sharp as a winter night.
"Luceris Moonbane," he said in a voice of iron, "you will not die tonight."
Then Luceris finally fell into blackness, the snow swallowing him whole.
---
When he awoke, the first thing he felt was warmth. A crackling fire, the faint sting of healing herbs on his wounds, and the soft furs tucked around him.
He forced open his eyes, fighting a wave of dizziness. The place was unfamiliar: stone walls, banners marked with a silver wolf sigil, warriors training in a courtyard beyond the open arch.
The man from before — the white-haired rescuer — sat by the fire, sharpening his blade.
Luceris struggled to sit up. "Who are you?"
The man looked up, eyes calm and knowing.
"Call me Thorne," he answered. "General Thorne of Ashenvale, once."
Luceris's mind reeled. Thorne? My father's general?
Thorne's expression softened, just slightly. "I was cast out, same as you. Betrayal runs deep in our homeland."
Luceris's hands trembled around the fur blanket. "Why help me?"
Thorne's jaw tightened. "Because you are the rightful heir. Because you are more than even you know."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
"And because the moon goddess herself has chosen you."
Luceris swallowed hard, heart pounding, as the words crashed into him like a tidal wave.
Chosen.
Alpha.
His story was only beginning.
---
Luceris sat in stunned silence, the warmth of the fire doing little to soothe the tremor in his bones. Thorne's words still echoed through him: the moon goddess herself has chosen you.
He had heard stories of the goddess — the mother of all Lycans, the pale light in the night sky, protector and punisher both. But he had never imagined she would even know his name, let alone tie his fate to hers.
"You speak of the goddess as if you've seen her," Luceris rasped. His voice was raw from battle and cold.
Thorne nodded slowly, eyes reflecting the flicker of the hearth. "In a way. She sent me dreams of a white wolf, bearing the mark of the Crescent Alpha. It was always you."
Luceris's hand drifted to his pendant. The carved silver crescent — once his mother's gift — seemed to thrum against his chest.
"Why me?" Luceris whispered.
Thorne's face hardened, as though carved from the same stone that built these walls. "Because you are the heir of a power so great, the other kingdoms would rather see you dead than watch you rise."
Luceris felt ice drip down his spine. His parents had died for that power. Now it waited within him, a hidden flame, terrifying and irresistible.
He forced himself to sit straighter despite the pain. "Where are we?"
Thorne nodded toward the open courtyard beyond. Through its arches, Luceris saw rows of soldiers drilling with unbroken discipline, banners snapping in the icy wind.
"This is Bryndale," Thorne said. "A kingdom of warriors, led by Alphas who have pledged their loyalty to the old ways. They do not serve the traitors who murdered your family."
Luceris stared. The fortress was massive, built into the bones of the mountain itself, its walls layered with ancient carvings of wolves and crescent moons. Even in the cold, fires burned bright, warriors trained with deadly grace, and the air smelled of iron and determination.
Bryndale felt alive. Untouched by the rot that had claimed Ashenvale.
"Why bring me here?" Luceris asked at last.
Thorne sheathed his blade and stood, tall and imposing in his black-and-silver armor. "Because here, you can learn what you truly are, Luceris. Here, you will find your strength. And one day, you will reclaim what is yours."
A heavy silence stretched between them. Luceris took in the weight of the words, the enormity of what Thorne offered — and what it demanded.
A flicker of doubt stirred. What if I am not enough? What if I fail?
Thorne seemed to read his mind. "You will doubt yourself," he said quietly, "as all true Alphas do. But you will learn. You will rise."
He pointed toward the courtyard. "Come. Let them see their prince."
Luceris hesitated, but then threw back the fur blankets and forced himself to stand. His legs shook, pain lanced through him, but he refused to bend.
Step by step, he followed Thorne through the archway, the cold air bracing against his wounds.
As they emerged, the warriors paused mid-drill. Steel clanged to silence. Dozens of eyes fixed on him — sizing him up, reading the scars, the bruises, the battered pride.
Thorne raised his voice.
"This is Luceris Aldric Moonbane," he announced. "He is the son of Alphas. The rightful heir of Ashenvale. And by the goddess's will, he will train among you."
A murmur rippled through the gathered soldiers — surprise, disbelief, a hint of challenge.
Luceris lifted his chin, forcing the fire into his gaze. He would not cower, not here.
A tall warrior stepped forward, sword still in hand. His hair was braided like Thorne's, but streaked with red leather, and a scar bisected one eyebrow.
"An unawakened prince," he said, voice measured. "Will he fight? Or only talk?"
Thorne's smile was cold. "You doubt him, Bregan?"
The warrior called Bregan shrugged. "I doubt everything."
Luceris felt anger surge, cutting through fear like a blade through cloth. "If you wish to test me," he said, voice steady despite the pain, "step forward."
A few of the soldiers grinned, eager for the coming clash.
Bregan tilted his head. "Very well, prince."
He lunged with breathtaking speed. Luceris barely brought up his arms, blocking a training sword that crashed against his guard like a battering ram. His legs buckled but he held.
Again Bregan struck, and again Luceris blocked. Sparks flew, pain screamed through his battered ribs, but something inside him — something primal — refused to fall.
Memories of his father's old lessons, half-forgotten, came flooding back.
Feet planted. Watch his hips, not his sword.
Bregan came in a third time. Luceris slipped sideways, letting the blade pass, and shoved him with raw fury. Bregan stumbled, eyes wide, and Luceris snatched a practice sword from the rack.
Steel met steel.
The courtyard rang with a single, clean strike that drove Bregan's weapon from his grasp, sending it skittering across the cobbles.
A hush fell over the warriors.
Bregan stepped back, breathing hard, then lowered his head in a gesture of respect.
"Well enough," he said. "You have iron in your bones, prince."
Thorne's expression flickered with pride. "He will learn," he said to the others, "and he will rise."
Luceris felt his chest loosen, breath ragged but triumphant. Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this place. Maybe he could even become something more.
But deep inside, a chill still stirred. He had bested Bregan, but the path ahead was a mountain yet to climb. And far away, back in Ashenvale, the seeds of betrayal continued to bloom.
---
That night, exhaustion wrapped around Luceris like a too-tight shroud. The aching of his body sang a chorus of pain from bruises, scrapes, and half-healed wounds, but the weight in his chest was heavier still.
He lay in a small stone chamber in Bryndale's keep, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, staring up at a ceiling darkened with soot from decades of fires. Every breath tasted of old stone and faint wolf musk, a reminder that this place was alive with warriors — that it had always been.
Sleep clawed at him. But when it finally took him, it was no gentle dream.
---
He stood in a silver forest, moonlight spilling through leaves like a river of molten glass. Shadows danced across bark the color of ash. A wind whispered around him, carrying the scent of crushed herbs and wild blood.
Before him, the trees opened to a great clearing where a white she-wolf stood, her fur aglow, her eyes like polished amethysts.
Luceris.
Her voice was everywhere — in the wind, in the earth, in his very bones.
You have walked a path of pain. But your path is not yet finished.
He fell to his knees before her, heart hammering.
"Who are you?" he choked.
I am the Moon. The Mother of the Blood. The spirit that birthed your line.
Tears burned his eyes. "Why me? Why must I carry this alone?"
Because you were born to carry it, she replied. You are the last son of the Crescent Blood. The Alpha the world has forgotten, but cannot live without.
A weight settled on his shoulders, vast and terrible.
"I'm not ready," he breathed.
No Alpha ever is. Her tone was sad, but resolute. But you will learn. You will protect them. You will love, and you will lose. You will rise, and you will fall. And then you will rise again.
She stepped closer, her paws silent on the forest floor. A silver mark burned on her forehead — the crescent, the same as the pendant his mother had given him.
Rise, my child, she commanded, and remember who you are.
---
Luceris woke with a ragged gasp, heart pounding. The dawn had only begun to pale the sky, washing the stones of the courtyard with pink. His sweat-soaked hair clung to his face.
You will rise again.
He closed his fist around the pendant on his chest, knuckles white.
The time for self-pity was over.
A knock came at his door, quick and firm.
"Enter," he called, voice hoarse.
Thorne stepped inside, already dressed in full armor, the scent of leather and steel around him. "Up. You're training with me this morning."
Luceris sat up, ignoring the screaming protest of his bruises. "I'm ready."
Thorne's mouth twitched, half a grin. "You're about to wish you weren't."
---
Down in the training yard, the cold bit at Luceris's skin, but today he welcomed it. It sharpened him, made him feel awake. The soldiers who had watched him the day before gathered again, curious to see what their new prince was made of.
Thorne tossed him a practice sword — heavier than any he had known before, its balance unyielding.
"Strike me," Thorne ordered.
Luceris blinked. "You're unarmed."
Thorne raised one eyebrow. "Strike me."
Luceris stepped forward and swung, putting every ounce of his battered strength behind it.
In a flash, Thorne snatched a staff from the rack, spinning it to deflect Luceris's blade. The shock rattled Luceris's arms to the shoulder.
"Again!"
Luceris swung. Blocked. Again. Deflected.
Over and over they circled, the older man moving with deadly ease, reading Luceris's attacks before they even began.
"You hesitate," Thorne barked.
Luceris gritted his teeth, sweat dripping into his eyes. "I don't!"
Thorne smashed the staff into his guard, sending Luceris sprawling.
"You do!"
Luceris scrambled up, rage boiling in his gut. "Again!"
This time, he lunged with fury, drawing on something deeper than technique — a wildness, a reckless instinct.
Thorne's eyes flickered with approval as Luceris spun, adjusting, adapting, teeth bared.
Steel rang.
Finally, Luceris broke through, his blade stopping just inches from Thorne's throat.
The older warrior grinned wolfishly. "Better."
Luceris panted, chest heaving, a strange exhilaration building inside him.
Thorne lowered his staff. "I will teach you, Luceris. But you will have to break the boy you were to become the Alpha you must be."
Luceris nodded, determination like fire in his veins.
"I'm ready," he said.
---