Kaelen collapsed to his knees.
Elara's blade slid from his chest, dripping with soulfire. Her hands trembled, her breath ragged, her heart torn in two. His blood was unlike any other—dark crimson laced with gold, the mark of a once-cursed Alpha turned protector, turned… sacrifice.
He looked up at her with a smile—not of regret, but of peace.
"You did the right thing," he whispered.
"No," she choked, falling to her knees beside him. "This isn't right. I didn't want this."
"You never had a choice. The prophecy demanded balance."
His fingers, stained in his own blood, reached up and brushed her cheek.
"I was always meant to be the one who fell."
Elara tried to stop the bleeding with her hands, but the wound was too deep. It wasn't just his body unraveling—it was his very essence, pulled away by the Hollow's law.
Aiden gasped from the Oath throne behind them, his lungs filling with air, his soul returning to his body with the force of a collapsing star. The Oath chain lay in shards around his feet.
"Elara…" he rasped, his voice like rust and honey.
But she couldn't look at him. Not yet.
Kaelen's breath hitched.
"Elara," he murmured. "Promise me… you'll finish this war. Don't let it be for nothing."
"I promise," she whispered.
He smiled.
And then Kaelen—the Betrayer, the Savior, the man who walked with guilt heavier than any blade—was gone.
A moment of silence fell in the Hollow.
And then the Veil screamed.
A pulse of energy radiated from Kaelen's blood, ripping through the realm and cracking the sky overhead. The mirrors of the Hollow shattered. The throne of bones split in two. Dark Elara let out a guttural snarl and vanished into mist.
Elara turned slowly to Aiden.
He stood on unsteady legs, still wearing the tattered remains of the Oath collar.
His golden eyes met hers.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence between them was heavier than war.
When they finally emerged from the Hollow, the world had changed.
The moon was gone.
Not shattered.
Not broken.
Gone.
In its place was a sky of void, stars blinking nervously, the tides churning with no rhythm.
All wolves had lost their howl.
The Alpha bond was flickering like a dying flame across the continent.
And at the center of it all—Elara and Aiden.
Two souls who had once been one, now standing on the ruins of prophecy.
Back at the Council of Ancients, panic had given way to chaos.
Selene had vanished.
The temples had closed.
The Wolf Priests could no longer read the stars.
And in the east, something worse stirred.
The Shadowborn—an ancient faction of werewolves who had long been exiled beyond the Vale of Bones—had begun to rise. They were born in the time before the Moon Oath, bound by blood alone, loyal to no prophecy.
They felt the break.
And they rejoiced.
Their leader—a creature of shadow and rage known only as The Mourning King—raised his clawed hand to the broken heavens.
"The Age of the Alpha is dead," he growled. "Let the Age of the Fang begin."
Elara and Aiden made camp at the edge of the Hollow's ruins.
Neither of them spoke much.
But that night, when the stars seemed too cold, Aiden finally said, "Why did you choose him?"
Elara stared into the fire. "I didn't. I chose to save you."
"That's not the same."
"No," she said. "But it was the only truth I had left."
He nodded slowly. Then: "I saw what he did. He knew it had to be him."
A long pause.
"Do you still love him?" Aiden asked.
Elara didn't answer.
And that was answer enough.
Days passed.
They crossed the Ashlands and entered the Whispering Range, heading toward the last refuge of the Moonborn—an ancient city known as Lyria, hidden in the mountains.
There, they hoped, the Elder Wolves could help restore balance, or at least explain what the Hollow had truly taken.
But what they found in Lyria was not safety.
It was war.
The city gates were ablaze, Shadowborn wolves leaping from the ridges like demons. The last of the Moon Priests fought a losing battle, their silver runes failing in the absence of the moon's light.
Elara drew her blade.
Aiden shifted.
Together, they charged into the fray.
The battle was chaos.
Elara fought with all she had, but the Shadowborn were unlike any enemy she had faced. They bled darkness. Their eyes burned with ancient hatred. And they whispered Kaelen's name as they struck—as if they knew what had been lost.
In the heart of the battle, Elara faced a Shadowborn general. A massive creature with black fur and crimson eyes.
"You carry the Betrayer's scent," he hissed.
She raised her blade. "I carry his memory."
He lunged.
The fight was brutal. Magic clashed with muscle, soul with fury.
But Elara prevailed—barely.
The general fell, gasping. "He was... ours... once."
Elara froze.
"What?"
But the wolf died before he could say more.
After the battle, Elara stood bloodied and broken atop the city walls.
Aiden approached, limping, his shoulder torn.
"What did he mean?" he asked.
"I don't know," she lied.
But she did.
Kaelen had always belonged to the shadows.
He had been sent into her life.
To watch her.
To betray her.
To fall in love with her.
To sacrifice himself.
It had always been written.
And now, she was beginning to wonder if Kaelen's death had not broken the prophecy...
…but fulfilled it.