The moon hung alone at its peak — vast and pale, a single silver eye staring down upon the sleeping world. The sky was void of stars, as though some unseen hand had plucked them from the firmament. Elyndra gazed upward, tracing the craters that marred the moon's face. It was said among the old elven seers that if one stared long enough, the moon revealed the true form of their lover.
Each time she looked, it took the shape of a great wolf.
When she once told Elarion this, he waved it off as foolish superstition — yet he, not she, bore the mark of their elven blood. With his silver hair and pointed ears, he was the image of their mother's kin, though his heart was pure human. Elyndra, by contrast, bore her father's features — her ears slight, her presence caught between two worlds.
She walked along the bank of the mountain stream, her boots crunching over pale gravel. The moonlight shimmered on the water's surface, scattering silver shards across the current. For a moment, she was tempted to wade in and swim beneath that argent light, as she had on so many nights before.
It was during those quiet swims that she had first felt it — the gaze watching her from the shadows beneath the ancient oak. One night, she called out, bidding the unseen to step into the light.
And he did.
He was no beast, nor elf, nor man she had ever known — but something both more and less. That night began the secret that bound her heart. And now, many nights later, they met again beneath the same moon.
She reached the oak tree, its roots like claws gripping the soil. The night was silent save for the hum of cicadas and the soft flicker of fireflies. Their golden light rippled over her skin.
Then — a rustle among the leaves. She smiled. Her heart knew the rhythm of that sound. Her breath hitched as her senses stirred; she could smell him — that faint, impossible scent, like wildflowers blooming in the heart of flame.
An arm slid around her waist. Another hand appeared before her, holding a single stalk — a warm blue rose, its petals aglow with faint emberlight. A flower thought extinct since the fall of Ardane. Yet he always brought one. He had told her of a hidden garden where the world still remembered beauty, and from that place he plucked a gift for her each time.
She turned — and met his eyes.
***
~Draven's POV~
They called her kind vile — greedy, treacherous, born to destroy. Yet the creature before him defied every word of those ancient truths.
She was young, delicate, radiant — more beautiful than the moon itself.
Draven had walked the earth for centuries, a god among wolves, but never had he known such grace. Her laughter haunted him, her scent unmade him, her presence stilled the beast that ruled his blood. He was death incarnate, a shadow of endless night — and yet she made him believe in dawn.
She was his ruin. And his salvation.
The wind rose, combing through her silver hair. The strands caught the moonlight and shimmered like threads of molten frost. His chest tightened. That old, dangerous heat coiled deep within — the ancient call of his kind. The beast stirred. His blood roared. He wanted to claim her, to mark her as his Luna beneath the eyes of gods and moons.
He forced a breath through clenched teeth.
Control. Always control.
He stepped toward her, slow as a stalking flame. She sensed him at once — her shoulders tensed, then eased, as though even her fear trusted him. He came up behind her, his chest brushing her back, and slipped the flower into her hands.
She turned. The world narrowed to her face, to the golden light of her eyes — to the curve of her lips. When she smiled, the centuries fell away, and for that single heartbeat, he was not a king of beasts, not the devourer of realms, but a man.
"You've grown taller," she murmured, her voice soft as dew.
He smiled faintly. "Is that your way of saying you missed me?"
Her laugh spilled into the night, bright as starlight reborn. He could have drowned in it. He had gone two long thalens without hearing that sound, and each silence had felt like a blade twisting through his immortal heart.
"Did you miss me?" she asked, eyes glinting with mischief.
"You have no idea," he breathed.
She leaned into him, her chest pressing lightly against his. His blood burned; his claws threatened to surface. He clenched his fists until his knuckles bled, willing the beast back into its cage.
"Show me," she whispered.
He growled — a deep, primal sound that trembled through her bones — and kissed her.
Her lips were warm, sweet, trembling against his. The world fell away — there was only the rush of blood, the scent of her skin, the wild beat of two hearts rebelling against the gods. They sank to the grass, tangled in moonlight and breath. For a moment, he forgot the wars, the walls, the curse of eternity.
When it was done, they lay side by side beneath the pale vault of heaven. The stream whispered beside them, the night thick with silence and scent. Their fingers brushed once… twice… then intertwined.
"Did you find what you were seeking?" he asked at last.
"I saw wyverns," she said, her eyes bright. "They were so—"
"Evil?" he teased.
"Majestic," she corrected, laughing softly. "Did you know dragons were made from wyverns—shaped by dark magic?"
He turned to her. The way she spoke of the old monsters — with wonder, not hate — made his ancient heart ache.
"Ogres," she continued, "the texts don't say how big they are. I saw one. It could crush a wagon with its hand!" She laughed again, and for a fleeting moment, Draven envied the simplicity of her awe.
"We should go to Lyrenfell," he said.
Her head snapped toward him. "That's in Ardane. My brother would kill me if he knew I even left the walls of Caelvorn."
"But you wandered as far as Moria."
"Which is still in Varethia," she hissed, eyes glinting. He laughed, low and rich.
Silence returned, softer now. He thought of his empty citadel — vast halls where no footsteps echoed but his own. The silence there was death. But this silence, beside her… it was peace.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"Nothing," he lied. Then, after a breath: "Just wondering what the world might be, if all creatures lived in harmony." when he was a child he once told his mother that were his dream—to unite the world. It had been forever and he had forgotten about that dream, about her.
"That would be something," she said simply.
He looked at her. "You think it possible?"
"If we all find reasons not to kill one another."
"And what reason would that be?"
"Love." She smiled faintly. "My father used to say love is the bridge no storm can break. It crosses seas, scales mountains."
He stared at her, struck silent. Love — he had forgotten the word, the meaning. Could love reach the heart of a beast? Could it wake what had long since died?
What he felt, was it love? Perhaps her love had reached to the depths of his heart and pulled at something, which he never knew was there. Or perhaps instead of pulling, her love was putting something there. The thought was dreadful. What would happen when either of those things grew into something not him?
"Maybe what the world needs is you," he whispered.
She blushed. "I'm just a naive girl."
"You think love could change the Wolf King?" he asked carefully.
She pondered, eyes glimmering with moonlight. "Werewolves have mates, don't they? If he ever had one, maybe she made him want to do good. Unless…" she smirked, "…she was evil too."
He laughed quietly. "Some hearts are born of darkness. Man, elf, or beast — some are incapable of love." That was one truth he believed.
"That's not true," she said gently. "The gods made this world out of love. It's still here, somewhere. Even in the most hideous of beasts."
He had no answer. Only her hand in his, warm and alive.
"If only we could stay like this forever," he murmured.
"Then come back with me," she urged. "We'll tell my brother you escaped a dungeon in Ardane."
He smiled, bittersweet. "I cannot. My people look to me. I am their chain"
Disappointment flickered across her face.
"But I love this," he added. "Each moment we steal feels eternal. I live them again when I am alone."
"Do you think of me?" softly she asked yet her eyes glittered.
"Always."
Her cheeks flushed crimson. Then, with a shy boldness, she rose and straddled him. Her breath trembled. Slowly, she let her gown fall from her shoulders, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her hair fluttered in the wind like a veil of silver fire.
He brushed a strand from her face. Her body was light, fragile — yet her presence crushed the air from his lungs.
"Then savor me to the last drop," she whispered.
And beneath the watchful eye of the moon, the Wolf King and the last daughter of men burned together — a sin of beauty against the dying light.