The air in the Temple of Crows was thick with old death.
Ash clung to the walls, clotted into the carved bones of ancient kings. The scent of blood and burnt incense slithered across the altar like a living thing. No windows. No escape. Only the ceaseless chanting of the Firstblood cultists.
Liora stirred against the obsidian chains binding her limbs. Her body, weakened. Her magic, suppressed by the hex-marked runes beneath her.
But her mind burned with clarity.
She should have died five years ago—on the day Ashmere fell. Her people had been slaughtered. Her mother, the High Seeress, torn from the altar. Her father, executed in front of the bloodroot flame.
But Liora had lived.
Saved by someone she still didn't understand. Hidden in exile, trained in secret, raised on half-truths and fire.
Now, Rowan Ashbane stood before her, hood thrown back, his bone dagger gleaming with fresh intent.
"You remember me, don't you?" he asked, crouching before her like a vulture watching its meal stir.
She spat at his feet. "You murdered my family."
He only smiled. "I liberated them. Same thing, depending on the prophecy you believe."
Liora's gaze hardened.
"You'll never awaken the Firstblood army. You're not the heir. You're just a shadow of a bloodline that chose pride over peace."
Rowan leaned in. "I don't need to be the heir. I only need to spill the heir's blood."
He raised the dagger toward her heart.
The cultists circled closer, chants rising to a fevered pitch. Symbols carved in blood began to glow. The altar beneath her vibrated like a pulse—one not hers.
But just before the blade struck—
The moonstone exploded.
A brilliant surge of light shattered the ritual ring, hurling Rowan backward.
Liora's chains snapped.
Her scream wasn't human—it was something deeper, something ancient. A voice tied to the core of the Firstblood prophecy. She stood, blood trailing down her arms, but her spine straight, her eyes molten silver.
Power radiated from her like a shockwave.
Then came the wolves.
Shadow-formed, fanged beasts materialized from the corners of the temple—summoned by the burst of raw magic. But they did not attack Liora. They circled her, protecting.
Rowan stumbled to his feet, furious.
"You think you can outrun fate?"
Liora smiled coldly.
"No. I am fate."
She turned—and vanished in the white flame, leaving nothing but ash and a shattered altar behind.
-
Back at Duskbane Keep
Maddox stormed into the map chamber, the scroll still clutched in his hand. The black mark—the triple moon sigil—burned into his vision.
Selene followed a breath behind, jaw tight. The tremors from the moonstone ritual had reached even here—rattling the towers and waking every bloodline-sensitive wolf in the kingdom.
"They've moved early," she said.
He spun toward her. "Who are they, Selene? No more riddles."
She hesitated.
Maddox stepped closer. "If I am to trust you, I need the truth. All of it."
She looked up—and for once, there was no mask.
"The triple moons belong to the Veylir Remnants. The lost sect of the original Firstbloods. They believe the current thrones are impure. Corrupted."
"And what do you believe?"
Selene swallowed. "That if they awaken the army, nothing will stop the fall of all three kingdoms—not even you."
He didn't answer for a moment.
Then, "Who is the girl they're hunting?"
Selene froze.
But Maddox had seen it—just a flicker in her expression. Recognition. Regret.
"You know her."
"I did," she whispered. "A long time ago."
He stepped closer, voice low. "Is she part of the prophecy?"
Selene gave a slow nod. "She's the spark. The heart of the old flame. She was supposed to die when Ashmere fell."
"But she didn't," he said quietly.
"No. And now… her blood is the key."
-
Meanwhile… in the woods beyond the border
Liora limped through the underbrush, every bone aching. The ritual had drained her. Her power was fractured, volatile.
She pressed a hand to her ribs and gritted her teeth. The shadow-wolves had vanished after protecting her escape, but they left her with something more dangerous: a mark.
A glowing rune on her palm.
It pulsed in time with the moons.
She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to get away.
Not just from Rowan, but from the prophecy.
And yet… she felt it pulling her.
South. Toward Duskbane.
Toward the wolf king who still sat on a throne not yet his.
At the same time, inside Duskbane's inner chambers
Selene returned to her quarters, locking the door behind her.
She unfastened the crescent pendant, laying it on the table beside an ancient book bound in bloodhide leather.
Inside, a single page was marked:
When the moons align and the heir bleeds, the Ashmere flame shall rise again.
But if the Hollow Throne does not bend to love… it will break beneath ruin.
She ran her fingers over the passage, heart tightening.
Maddox was the heir.
Liora was the flame.
And she—Magdalene—was caught between two fires.
She closed her eyes, whispering the name that still haunted her: "Liora… I'm sorry."
Hours later, Maddox stood at the edge of the throne room balcony.
The kingdom lay beneath him in eerie stillness. And yet the blood in his veins screamed of movement, of pressure.
He wasn't ready for prophecy.
He wasn't ready for fate.
But fate had arrived.
A scout appeared behind him. "My king. We have word from the eastern pass. A girl—young, injured—matching the old Ashmere sigils. She collapsed at the ward line."
Maddox turned slowly.
"Is she alive?"
"Barely."
His jaw clenched. "Bring her to the inner sanctum. No one else is to see her—not even the court."
"And Lady Selene?"
Maddox hesitated.
"No. Not yet."
In the candlelit corridor below the Keep, healers whispered over the unconscious girl with silver eyes. But unseen in the shadowed rafters above… Rowan stood cloaked in blood-veil magic, watching her breathe. He smiled faintly, eyes burning with dark purpose.
"Now I know where you are… little flame."