The night should have returned to music and lantern light.
Instead, it drowned in silence.
The courtyard smelled of ash and fear.
Soldiers whispered.
Wolves paced the walls in restless circles, ears pinned back, Lunir Blood still burning beneath their skin, reacting to the danger they could no longer see.
King Edran doubled the patrols.
Garrick sent scouts to the river.
Lyra and the healers worked until their hands shook, pouring silverwood salve into wounds — the only medicine strong enough to slow poison left by corrupted claws.
No one celebrated Remembrance Night.
Riven sat on the empty training field, staring at the dirt between his shoes.
His hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Rowan dropped beside him and waved a hand in front of his face.
"Hey. You're alive. That's a victory. Stop looking like a dying fish."
Riven didn't smile.
Rowan's voice softened. "...You're thinking about it, aren't you?"
Riven stared at his palms.
"That thing… it looked at me. Like it recognized me."
"It didn't," Rowan insisted. "It was a monster."
Riven shook his head. "No. For a second, it looked scared. Like something inside wanted help."
Rowan couldn't joke anymore.
He put a hand on Riven's shoulder.
"You're not your father," he said. "And you're not Valen. You're you."
Riven let out a slow breath. "Doesn't feel like enough."
A soft voice interrupted.
"You two should wash," Lyra said, stepping forward with a bowl of herbal water. "You smell like fear and smoke."
Rowan sniffed his sleeve. "I smell heroic."
"You smell terrible," Lyra corrected.
Rowan clutched his heart. "Betrayal!"
Riven managed a small laugh.
When Lyra handed him the bowl, her fingers brushed his—warm, steady, gentle.
Pureblood Lunir magic flowed in her touch, calming the nervous spark under Riven's skin.
"It will be okay," she whispered.
Riven wished he believed her.
---
War Room
Deep in the castle, torches burned low over maps and hunting trophies.
The scent of burned fur and silver polish still clung to the air.
King Edran stood at the center of the table, knuckles pressed to the wood.
Garrick, Valen, and several captains surrounded him.
Edran spoke quietly, but every word hit like a hammer.
"That creature was once a Wolfheart soldier."
A captain swore under his breath.
"They dragged our people across the river," Garrick growled. "They made them into… that."
Wolves were meant to die as people — not ash.
Only corrupted magic destroyed Lunir Blood so completely.
Valen stood motionless, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Another captain swallowed. "Why didn't Valen transform? He could have ended it faster."
Edran didn't raise his voice, but steel cut through his tone.
"Valen does not need to prove himself."
Silence filled the room.
Finally, Valen spoke—voice low, even.
"I won't transform. Not again."
No one questioned him.
Valen could control his form.
But the night he became the Ravager was burned into every soldier's memory.
There were scars on the stones that still hadn't faded.
Garrick exhaled. "We'll sweep the river at dawn. They won't get close again."
Valen shook his head.
"They already are close."
Edran's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
Valen stepped to the window.
Across the dark river, faint lanterns flickered between the trees.
Not Wolfheart patrols.
Bloodfang scouts.
And maybe something worse.
---
The River
Riven could not sleep.
The forest was too silent, and silence was worse than howling.
He walked alone to the riverbank, moonlight silvering the water.
Lunir Blood hummed faintly beneath his skin, reacting to danger he couldn't see.
Ripples spread across the surface—something drifting toward shore.
A small wooden boat.
Riven crouched as it bumped against the rocks. Inside lay a torn piece of Bloodfang armor and a dark stain of dried blood.
His stomach twisted.
He reached toward it—
A hand caught his wrist.
Riven flinched.
Valen stood behind him, quiet as shadow.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he said.
Riven swallowed. "Is it from one of ours?"
Valen looked at the boat.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Riven clenched his fists.
"Why would Bloodfang do this? We helped them after the war. We're not enemies anymore."
Valen stared at the moon, face unreadable.
"There are things you don't know."
Frustration cracked through Riven's fear.
"Then tell me!"
Valen's head turned sharply.
His eyes—usually silent, calm—flared with something Riven had never seen.
Pain.
"Because the truth is heavier than your shoulders can carry," Valen said. "And once you hear it, you will never sleep again."
Riven's voice dropped. "I'm not a child anymore."
Valen looked at him for a long, heavy moment.
"You have your father's eyes," he murmured. "But not his heart."
The words hit harder than any punch.
Valen went on, voice softer.
"Your father fought for hope. You fight because you're afraid."
Riven stared at the ground.
"…I don't want to become a monster."
"You won't," Valen said.
"How do you know?"
Valen turned away, cloak shifting in the wind.
"Because you asked."
He stepped into the shadows.
Riven called after him.
"Uncle—are you leaving again?"
Valen didn't stop.
But he answered.
"No. Not this time."
Back at the water's edge, Riven stood alone.
His uncle was nearby.
Monsters were real.
Bloodfang was moving in silence.
And for the first time in his life—
Riven was afraid of his own blood.