Alaric was in the armory when Mira found him—his cloak thrown aside, blades arrayed before him like old friends. He was inspecting the edge of his sword, testing the balance, as though he could steel his mind simply by feeling cold steel beneath his fingers. Outside, the world was waking: sentries patrolling the battlements, pages carrying messages, the faint smell of pine and hearthfire drifting through open arches.
Mira closed the door quietly and stepped against the wall. He didn't look up.
"You sought me," he said, voice low.
She nodded, swallowing hard, tasting ash in her mouth. "I did."
He wiped his blade on a scrap of cloth, turned it, and let it rest across his forearm. "Then speak."
Mira took a deep breath. She felt the weight of the memory pressing at her temples—visions of Caelen on that white slab, the black flame, the wolf-cloaked man whose face she could not see. She reached into her satchel and retrieved a small, ash-caked scroll. "I found this at the Old Circle."
Alaric's eyes flicked to the mark stamped on the edge: the emblem of the Forbidden Archives. He exhaled slowly. "Not good."
Mira knelt before him and laid the scroll at his feet. "It details Caelen's rebirth. It wasn't a miracle or a madness—he was engineered."
Alaric's jaw clenched. "Who could have bound the First Moonless to him?"
"My father," Mira said quietly. "He stood at the Circle that night, wearing the wolf-cloak. The ritual was his design." She pressed her knuckles to her eyes, blinked back a flicker of tears. "He thought he was saving Caelen. That by sealing him in shadowfire, he could forge a weapon against the Council. But instead… he created a monster."
Alaric crouched. He traced the runes on the scroll with a fingertip. His eyes hardened. "And you saw this in the dream?"
She nodded. "I saw them pouring the black flame, felt the slab shattering beneath Caelen's bones. I saw the moment his eyes opened—void, not life. I woke here, and my nail was burned black by that same magic."
He rose, pacing toward the window, gaze fixed on the distant ridges. "I knew my brother survived. I felt it. But I never imagined… that my own mentor—my father's hand—had done this."
Mira stood beside him. "He believed in a prophecy, in the Old Ways. He believed that only by binding the old power to Caelen could Ironfang—and perhaps all the packs—return to their true forms. He didn't grasp the cost."
Alaric's voice broke as he turned to her. "The cost is everything. My brother's soul. His salvation. Our kin. Do you know how that feels? To lose someone once… to have him die in your arms? And now to face the truth that I buried him not in snow, but in shadow?"
Mira reached forward, clasping his forearm gently. "His name is not buried, Alaric. And he is not gone. He's still alive—still your brother. You can help him."
He shook his head, dark hair falling across his forehead. "He calls me to the cliffs. He brands the world as I wear a crown of apology. I'm the last heir to a legacy built on lies, and now his survival is proof that everything I believed was false."
Mira placed a hand on his chest. "It's not too late. You can know the truth, help him break free. But you must act now—before he gathers too many under his banner, before the First Moonless can consume him wholly."
Alaric closed his eyes, breathing hard. He could hear the distant hum of hollow magic, feel its pull. "You said he was prepared for me. That he wants me to witness what I buried. I can't just walk into that vale without armor—without purpose."
Mira's eyes glowed silver. "You have more than steel. You have truth. And I will stand by you."
He opened his eyes, fierce and pained, and brushed aside the tears she could not see. "Then we leave at first light. I go to him not as Alpha, but as a brother who once failed. You will guide me."
Mira nodded, heart pounding. The air between them felt charged with fate, as though the walls themselves leaned in.
That night, they gathered what they needed. Alaric donned simple traveling leathers, concealing his armor beneath layers of gloomshade cloth. He sheathed two blades at his waist: one forged by Ironfang smiths, tempered in flame; the other the ancient fang-blade Caelen had once carried on his rebellion's banner. Mira strapped a pouch of dream-ink to her belt and cradled a silvered dagger etched with protective runes.
They left through a secret passage beneath the west wall, the guards believing them gone on routine patrol. Their footsteps echoed through the darkness as they descended into the bowels of the bastion—corridors lined with memory wards and ancient sigils meant to guard against the First Moonless. Yet Caelen's presence had warped them. A low hum thrummed beneath their boots, a reminder that they walked a path both blessed and damned.
Hours passed as they navigated the winding tunnels. Alaric's breath came steady, but his gaze flicked to every corner. Mira moved beside him, drawing runes in the air to keep the wards at bay, to hold back the illusions that would twist their minds.
Finally, they emerged into the Lost Vale—a hidden chasm beyond the known mountain roads, filled with frosted pines and half-frozen streams. The sky was a pale gray, the air thick with the scent of pine resin and ancient magic. In the distance, the Hollow Cliffs rose like a shattered crown, the jagged peaks ribbed with obsidian veins that seemed to glow from within.
They paused at the foot of the cliffs. Alaric knelt and pressed his palm into the snow, tasting his brother's blood in the earth—old and new. He closed his eyes as Mira placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered a protective spell. The runes flared faintly around them, holding the darkness at bay.
They began to climb the narrow path carved into granite, silent except for the crunch of ice beneath their boots. Bright red runes bled through the cracks in the stone—runes that mirrored the ones in Caelen's hall. Mira traced them with her eyes, her lips moving in a quiet invocation.
Alaric's heart pounded. With every step, he felt the pull of his brother's magic, the tug of the First Moonless's voice, urging, testing. He gripped the fang-blade at his waist, feeling its weight and the legacy it carried.
Finally, they reached a plateau where the path ended at a sheer drop into the valley below. At the center stood Caelen—tall, still, cloaked in darkness so deep it seemed to drink the light. He turned as they approached, arms outstretched as if to embrace the sky, his silver eyes blazing.
"Alaric," he said. His voice was not angry, not pleading—just certain. "You came."
Alaric drew a breath and stepped forward. "Brother."
Mira stayed behind, safe in the runic circle she had drawn. Her voice ran soft, steady: "Stand firm. Remember who he was—and who you are."
Alaric felt the flash of memory in his mind—Caelen's laughter among the children, the first day they learned to shift together under the full moon. He felt the pain of loss, the guilt of decisions made in fear.
Caelen tilted his head, a single black teardrop sliding down his cheek. "I remember."
Alaric swallowed, his voice barely more than a rasp. "Then help me remember why I banished you."
Caelen's lips curved into something like sorrow. "Because I threatened the lies you built. You showed mercy to wolves who wouldn't let you rest. I showed mercy to none."
Alaric's hand trembled as he took a step closer. "Then show me why."
Caelen's gaze flicked to the fang-blade at Alaric's waist. "That blade," he said, voice soft, "once protected me. Now it points at my heart."
Alaric bowed his head. "I carry the weight of that blade's betrayal."
Caelen closed the distance, so close they could feel each other's breath. "Are you here to kill me, or to remember me?"
Alaric hesitated. "I don't know."
A wind rose in the valley below, carrying the hum of the stone and the pulse of ancient magic. Caelen placed a hand on Alaric's chest, just above his heart. "Then let us begin."
And as his fingers brushed the cold steel of the fang-blade, the world seemed to tremble, awaiting the choice that would decide not just their fates, but the future of every wolf bound to moon and blood.