The alignment of the moons had always been more than legend.
In the time before crowns and courts, the ancients knew it as the Waking Moon—a cosmic omen marking the rise of trueblood werewolves and the stirring of ancient magics long sealed beneath the earth. It came once every five centuries.
And tonight, it bled across the sky like a wound.
Maddox stood alone on the eastern watchtower, his eyes locked on the triple moons. His mark burned steadily beneath the glove he now wore, as if trying to answer the call overhead.
He had heard of the Waking Moon in stories. But never believed it would return in his lifetime.
Let alone in his reign.
Behind him, the winds shifted.
Selene approached silently, a midnight cloak wrapping around her like second skin. A single crescent moon pendant gleamed at her throat.
"You feel it too," she said.
He nodded. "It's like… something inside me wants to answer."
Her gaze drifted toward the sky. "The pact is awakening."
Maddox turned, tension creeping into his voice. "What pact?"
Selene didn't respond immediately. She walked to the edge, fingers brushing the cold stone. Her expression was unreadable—part sorrow, part fear.
"In the time of the Firstbloods, a prophecy was born," she began. "One wolf born under the Waking Moon would rise with the power to either shatter the bloodlines… or unite them."
He stilled.
"That prophecy—it's about me."
She nodded. "Yes. And someone is trying to force its hand."
-
Far from the Vale, in the ruins of the Ashmere temple, a dark ritual began under the blood moons.
Wolves once loyal to the Duskbanes knelt in silence around a stone dais carved with bones and blackened glyphs. The hooded seeress—known only as Mother Syla—lifted a bowl of moon-forged silver filled with crimson water and shadow root.
"The heir has awakened," she intoned. "But he is not yet claimed."
Behind her, the bone-armored figure stepped forward.
Rowan Ashbane. Maddox's exiled cousin.
Once stripped of name and lineage for leading a rebellion, Rowan had returned with the support of cursed blood mages and traitor packs. And now, he bowed his head toward the seeress.
"I will bind the Firstblood," Rowan vowed, his voice a growl. "And if he refuses… I will spill it instead."
-
Back in the war room, Maddox stared at the ancient scrolls Selene had laid out.
One depicted the Waking Moon above three crowns: one whole, one broken, and one burning. Another showed the Hollow Throne crumbling beneath the weight of a wolf with silver eyes.
"What are the crowns?" he asked.
Selene traced the runes with her fingertip. "Three kingdoms: Vale, Ashmere, and Veylir."
"Veylir's been gone for centuries."
"Or hidden," she countered. "There are rumors of a surviving bloodline."
He turned toward her, jaw clenched. "So what does this mean for me? What am I supposed to do?"
Selene looked at him then—not as Selene Noir, the mysterious consultant, but as Magdalene Rivers. The woman who had once burned for vengeance, only to find herself caught in fate's cruel snare.
"You choose what kind of king you become," she said. "The prophecy doesn't demand you become a tyrant. But it will test every inch of your soul."
That night, Selene entered the sanctuary below the Keep.
She lit silver candles in a crescent arc and placed the moonstone vial in the center. Her disguise slipped away—clothes morphing into the ceremonial gown of the High-Blood Order.
The magic she'd bound to her voice whispered warnings.
You're getting too close.
You still haven't told him the truth.
If he finds out who you were when Ashmere burned…
She silenced the voices.
Selene poured drops of her own blood into the moonstone bowl and whispered the incantation to contact the Oracle.
The flame turned black.
A woman's voice answered.
"Magdalene Rivers… you walk a blade too thin."
Selene lowered her head. "I seek guidance."
"The Hollow Throne has shifted," the Oracle replied. "But the one who stirs beneath it does not sleep for long. You must choose. Soon."
"Choose what?"
"To protect him… or destroy him."
Elsewhere in the forest, under the veil of shadow, Rowan Ashbane knelt before an ancient altar.
A fang-shaped dagger lay across his palms, etched with blood-inked glyphs.
One of his scouts approached.
"We've found her."
Rowan's eyes gleamed.
"Selene Noir?"
The scout shook his head.
"No… Magdalene Rivers. The Ashmere Flame."
Rowan's mouth curled into a cruel smile.
"She lives," he whispered. "Then it begins. Prepare the Blackfang."
-
At the Keep, Maddox dreamed again.
But this time, the girl in the dream—Liora—was clearer. She stood beside the Hollow Throne, dressed in ceremonial robes with a crescent burned into her palm.
"You chose wrong," she whispered.
Then she pulled the throne apart with her bare hands.
Beneath it, something moved.
A hand emerged—black as pitch, claws curved like a scythe.
Then he saw himself—kneeling in chains, crown shattered, fangs bloodied.
The voice that followed was not Liora's.
It was older. Colder.
"Blood calls to blood, and thrones are built from ruin."
He woke just before dawn.
The Keep stirred with anxious energy. A raven had arrived—its wings scorched, its eyes blind.
Maddox opened the scroll sealed with ash-wax.
She lives. Ashmere's flame walks among you.
You were never meant to rule.
No signature.
No seal.
Just a symbol—three moons inside a wolf's skull.
Selene stepped into the room moments later, but paused when she saw his face.
"What is it?" she asked.
Maddox handed her the scroll.
She paled.
"I know that mark," she said. "It's from Veylir's hidden sect. The Firstbloods who survived."
"And they know who you are," he said quietly.
She looked at him, mask almost breaking.
"Yes," she whispered. "And now… they're coming."
-
Far beyond the Vale, in the Temple of Crows, Rowan raised the blood dagger high. Behind him, chained to the altar, a girl with silver eyes struggled against the binding spell. Liora was still alive.
And her blood… would awaken the Firstblood army.