The moon hung low over Mars—swollen, red, and hungry.
It looked as though it had been drinking from the wounds in the sky.
Ash drifted along the barren ridges, curling into serpents of smoke that slithered toward the old scar Velkar had carved months ago. That wound in the world still pulsed faintly, bleeding shadow like a heartbeat that refused to die. And where that shadow kissed the soil, the ground blackened—not with death, but with something worse. It lived.
Lyra stood at the edge of that scar, her hands outstretched. Her gown of woven shadow snapped in the breathless wind. Her hair gleamed like dark silk, her beauty sharpened into something dangerous—too perfect, too cruel. Her eyes burned with venomous triumph. Each breath she drew thickened the darkness, coaxing it upward like vines. The air itself seemed to rot beneath her will.
Beside her, Velkar stood in silence. His spear was slung across his back, his jaw hard as obsidian. He said nothing—but his stillness was not disapproval. He was watching her. Testing her. And somewhere deep in the cracks of his cursed soul, perhaps even admiring her.
The scar widened as Lyra began to sing—a song that was not music, but poison shaped into sound. Wolves emerged one by one—gray, silver, and black. Their eyes dripped shadow, their fangs bared in reverence. They circled her in silence, bowing low. Lyra's lips curved like a blade.
"Rise," she whispered.
And they did.
From the heart of the scar, something else stirred. Not beast. Not shadow. Something between.
A cry echoed—thin and distant, the cry of a child not born of flesh but of memory. Lyra's chest swelled with pride. Her daughter had awakened.
Far from the scar, Selene jolted awake.
The fire in her chamber guttered low, its flames trembling like a dying heartbeat. Shadows leapt along the obsidian walls, whispering in tongues older than speech.
Her son lay in a cradle of flame and silk. Even asleep, his presence burned against her soul—his aura pulsing like a second heart in the room.
She leaned over him, brushing a damp curl from his brow. "Peace, my little one," she whispered. "You are safe."
But even as she spoke, she knew the words were a lie.
Her dreams still clung to her mind—visions of wolves, endless and howling, their voices joined into one feral hymn. Above them stood a girl. Eyes glowing with venom. A smile shaped like Lyra's vengeance.
Selene's chest tightened. She had seen heirs before—in visions, in prophecy—but never this.
Velkar's blood. Lyra's will. A child born not of love, but of vengeance.
The baby stirred, sensing her fear. His golden eyes flickered beneath his lids. Selene pressed trembling fingers to her lips. She wanted to believe love had broken fate. But the whispers said otherwise:
Two heirs. Two fates. Only one will endure.
Unable to bear the stillness, she walked to the balcony. Beyond the glass, Mars stretched crimson and hollow. And far away, the scar still bled faintly in the dark. The wind carried the faintest sound—
a howl.
At the scar's heart, the wolves parted.
A child stepped through.
She was small—no older than Selene's son. Her hair tumbled in dark waves streaked with silver, her skin pale as frost, her eyes… something else entirely. Venom burned there: a deep green fire threaded with shadow.
The wolves bowed lower. The ground itself seemed to hush as she raised a hand. Shadows curled around her ankles, clinging to her like worshipers. She smiled, and for the briefest instant, her canines caught the moonlight—sharp and too soon for childhood.
Lyra fell to one knee, tears burning her eyes. Not from weakness, but from victory.
"Nyla," she breathed. "Daughter of wolves. Heir of shadow. The venom of my blood."
Velkar stepped closer, his expression unreadable. For a moment, pride flickered across his face—quick as lightning, gone as fast.
"Will she endure the curse?" he asked.
Lyra rose, her venomous beauty unbroken. "She is no curse, Velkar. She is freedom. Where Selene's son chains himself to love, mine will kneel to nothing. She will devour prophecy itself."
Nyla's eyes met his. The shadows stirred. The wolves growled low.
Velkar inclined his head, a dark grin splitting his face.
"So she shall."
Days passed. Selene's peace unraveled.
Her son changed too quickly. His body strengthened, his gaze deepened, his words sharpened into fragments of strange wisdom—fire, shadow, freedom. The air itself bowed to him.
But what chilled her most was the darkness now coiling at his fingertips—not chaotic like Velkar's, but calm, deliberate. As if the child had chosen balance where others chose war.
The Beast watched her struggle. One night, as the boy slept, he placed a clawed hand against her cheek. "You fear him," he murmured—not accusation, only sorrow.
Selene shook her head. "No. I fear what will come for him."
And as if summoned by her words, the distant howls returned—carried on the wind, faint and growing.
Lyra's venom spread faster than flame.
The wolves she touched no longer bled—they corrupted. Their eyes gleamed green, their breath withered crops, their claws turned life to rot. Villages near the scar fell silent, their stone walls clawed and stained.
Nyla stood among the carnage, her eyes bright with childish wonder. Lyra taught her the art of venom—not as poison, but as power. With every touch, wolves grew larger, silvered, unholy. When she sang, the sky trembled.
At night, Lyra's voice coiled around her daughter's dreams.
"The world is yours, my venom-born," she whispered. "Take it. When Selene's son stands before you, strike him down. Then prophecy will kneel."
Nyla smiled, her teeth gleaming like blades. "Yes, Mother."
Selene's next vision struck like lightning.
She knelt before her altar, whispering prayers for strength, when her fire turned green. Her son's cry split the silence—and in his place stood a girl of shadow and wolves, smiling as Mars broke beneath her feet.
Selene fell back, gasping. The fire whispered in a hundred voices:
She comes.
That night, Selene clutched her son tight against her chest. "I will not lose you," she swore.
But the vow felt hollow, for even her fire trembled.
And then, under the swollen moon, prophecy came alive.
Selene stood on her balcony, her son in her arms. The air turned heavy. The wind carried a low, thunderous growl. Then—howls. Endless, echoing, near.
From the horizon, they came. Wolves by the thousands, their eyes burning venom-green. Shadows coiled like storms at their feet.
At their center stood Lyra, regal, radiant, terrible. Her gown shimmered like eclipse silk, venom dripping from her very aura. Beside her—Nyla.
The child of shadow stepped forward, eyes gleaming with poison and stormlight. Her small hand rose, and the wolves bowed as one. She smiled—sharp, knowing, eternal.
Selene's heart stopped.
Nyla's gaze met hers across the distance—child to mother, heir to heir. A spark of recognition. Of destiny. Of war.
And in that moment, Selene understood:
Her son was not the prophecy's only heir.
Preview:
One child born of fire, another of venom. Mars will burn, and the heavens will tremble—
for prophecy no longer whispers. It roars.