Rejected by the Alpha, Chosen by the Moon

With a roar, he forced his bones to crack – half-shifting, claws erupting from his fingertips. And for the first time, his claws became his daggers.

He swung mercilessly, cutting through the pack. Their screams died unfinished.

But one slipped past him, with dagger aimed for Lyra's chest.

Ciran's side kick blade flew, the one he had used against Lyra in the training section.

It struck true, severing the spine. The body crumpled at the foot of the bed.

Silence.

The survivors retreated, melting into the night. Not in fear.

On orders.

Ciran collapsed against the doorframe, blood pooling beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps. His shoulder burned where wolfsbane venom seeped into muscle, but he refused to stagger.

Behind him, Lyra slept on, unaware.

The System's glow pulsed under her skin, threads of silver weaving through her veins.

Alive.

Mine to protect.

He dragged himself to her side, one hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.

"They'll send more," he whispered, voice raw. "But not tonight."

Dawn crept over the windowsill.

Lyra's eyelids fluttered.

[System Alert: Host Under Threat.]

Her eyes snapped open.

And the first thing she saw was the blood staining Ciran's hands.

Her heart lurched, a frantic drum against her ribs, as her lips parted to speak.

But before sound could escape, Ciran's bloodied hand brushed her lips, not to silence, but to warn her with cold, gentle touch.

Ciran's gaze snapped to hers, a silent warning flaring in his eyes. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up from her side, his movements stiff with pain.

He turned toward the window.

Moonlight cut through the glass, painting his profile in silver and shadow. His shoulders tensed as he stared into the distance, at the same spot where Kael's silhouette had burned against the torchlight the night before.

But tonight?

A woman stood there.

Selena.

Her silhouette was a blade against the horizon, her posture regal, her stillness unnatural. Even from this distance, Ciran could feel her smile, sharp as a guillotine's edge.

Ciran's voice was a whisper, rough with blood and fury:

"She's counting the bodies."

Blood still crusted Ciran's shoulder when the summons came.

A single parchment, sealed with Frostfang's sigil. One word: "Appear."

Lyra's fingers tightened around the parchment. The wax seal cracked like a bone. She would answer—but not on her knees.

The great stone hall of Highroot Plateau loomed like a temple carved not for worship, but for judgment.

A cathedral of cold authority, hewn from the spine of the mountain itself.

The walls were raw stone, scarred with age, and etched deep with sigils so old they predated language, predating even the first wars.

Symbols older than bloodlines, older than memory.

They pulsed faintly under the flicker of torchlight, dim stars trapped in rock, glowing with buried knowledge no tongue alive could translate.

Only revere.

Pillars lined the chamber, each one massive, not constructed, but grown from the mountain, dark and veined with mineral streaks.

They stretched so high their tops vanished into shadow, like giants turned to stone.

Each surface was worn smooth by the passage of centuries, yet still bore the scars of ancient conflict, claw marks, scorch lines, blood-grooves sealed by time.

Between them, the echoes of every decision ever made here still moved, whispers with no mouths, gliding between stone ribs like spirits bound to duty.

At the hall's heart burned the sacred firepit, the Silverflame, a flame with no smoke, no scent, no mercy.

Its light was moon-pale, licking across stone with cold brilliance.

It cast no warmth, only illumination and judgment, flickering like a blade dipped in liquid light.

It had never gone out.

Legend said it was sparked from the first Luna's breath, bound by vow, sealed in starlight and ritual blood.

Now it crackled softly, feeding on silence, flaring with every lie spoken too close.

Behind the summit table, carved into the mountain wall like a throne of fate, hung three towering banners, heavy with ancient thread and older memory:

Frostfang: blue and white, bearing the sigil of a snarling wolf beneath an ice-crowned moon, logic without empathy, winter without thaw. The domain of calculation and cold justice.

Stonehide: brown and gold, split by the roots of an unyielding tree, endurance, obedience, and the laws that didn't bend, only broke those beneath them.

Nightbloom: violet and black, woven with rose-thorns and crescent daggers, secrecy, bloodlines, and the silences traded beneath eclipses. The language of whispers and veils.

Beneath each hung its ruling Alpha, figures carved from age, weathered by lineage and iron expectation.

Their bodies were still, but their presence was suffocating.

They did not watch.

They judged.

No glance here was casual. No breath taken without purpose. Every move made in this hall held consequence.

And amid it all, Kael.

Reclining in his seat like a prince too bored to hold the crown.

His cloak spilled over the arms of the chair, deep crimson, with a wet sheen, like blood that had just been spilled and hadn't quite dried.

At his hip rested a blade, curved, obsidian-black, its edge catching the firelight like a smile carved in bone.

He didn't bother to sit up. Didn't lift his gaze. His voice oozed into the chamber like oil across sacred water.

"Let's not pretend she's an equal," Kael drawled, voice low and sweet as rot.

"Let's not waste time dressing up an exile as royalty."

He smiled then.

Not with his mouth.

A ripple passed through the room, not a roar, not a protest, but a whispered disturbance, like wind stirring through dry grass before a fire catches.

Murmurs flared, tight-lipped, controlled, layered with disapproval.

But not a single voice rose to challenge Kael.

Not here.

Not yet.

Then, the great doors groaned open.

Stone scraped against stone, echoing like thunder inside a mausoleum.

Cold air swept in, biting, sharp, scented faintly with frost and wild herbs, the breath of the mountains, drawn into sacred space.

And through that threshold, Lyra entered.

She did not pause.

Did not bow.

Her steps rang clear across the polished stone, deliberate as ritual.

Her cloak trailed behind her like smoke, spun from moonlight and shadow, and with every movement it rippled, not like fabric, but like a tide controlled by lunar pull.

At its hem, silver embroidery glimmered, catching the flickering silverflame.

It shimmered not just like stars, but like constellations in motion, a night sky stitched in thread, alive with purpose.

She didn't move with grace.

Not the fragile, court-trained elegance they expected.

She moved with precision.

Not soft.

Not fluid.

Like a blade returning to its scabbard.

At her side walked Ciran.

Unarmored. Unadorned.

He wore only shadow, and it seemed to cling to him willingly.

He bore no weapons, he was one.

His presence whispered of knife-quiet deaths, of war dances done in silence.

His gaze swept the room like flint striking steel, measuring, watching, daring.

He did not speak.

He didn't need to.

He was the promise of violence, walking upright beside the storm.

The chamber hushed.