We returned to the forest like ghosts, shadows of the warriors we had been just hours before. Our fur was matted with blood, ash, and grief. The silence in the Blood Forest was deeper than before—not a peaceful stillness, but a hollow, aching void. The ground was damp with the aftermath of storm and war, the trees bowed in mourning. What once felt like home now mirrored a battlefield graveyard. Every step forward was a silent tribute to those who had not made it back.
I walked at the head of what remained of my pack, Aria in my arms. She had not stirred since the collapse of the Queen's cathedral. Her pulse still beat—slow, but steady. Her fire had burned too brightly, and now it slumbered, dimmed, flickering like the last ember in a hearth. My heart threatened to break with every breath she did not take.
My legs ached with each step. My bones throbbed with the memory of battle. The ghost of the Queen's scream still rang in my ears, a haunting echo that clung to my mind. And yet, I pressed forward, for them. For the ones who followed. For those who had fallen. For the girl whose power could break worlds—and now lay dormant.
We crossed the veil back into our realm. The Cage of Nightmares sealed itself behind us with a final groan, and I prayed to whatever god still listened that it would never open again. My ears twitched at every sound, my instincts on edge, waiting for danger that, this time, did not come.
Night had fallen.
The moon, once our guiding light, now felt distant. Cold. Detached from our suffering. Its silver glow seemed to mock our pain, hanging high and unreachable. I looked up at it and saw no answers, only silence.
We made it to the Hollow—a sacred place our kind had used for generations to recover, to grieve, to remember. The moment we reached the edge, the healers rushed forward. Eyes widened at the sight of us. Some wept. Some fell to their knees. They had not expected us to return. We had not expected it either.
I laid Aria down in the Circle of Healing. Moss and moonstone surrounded her like an offering. The oldest healer, a wolf so ancient his fur had turned silver-gray, placed trembling hands upon her forehead.
"She walks the line between flame and shadow," he murmured. "But her soul clings. Fierce. She may yet return."
I nodded silently and stepped back. I could not watch. But I could not look away either.
The others found places to rest. We buried the dead under the weeping willows, their names whispered into the earth with reverence. Rhys was given the rites of the warrior, his axe placed beside him, his name etched into the memory of our people. I spoke the words myself, my voice cracking but steady.
The following days passed like a slow bleed.
No threats came from the trees. The wind no longer carried screams or shadows. And yet, none of us could find sleep without waking in a cold sweat, hearing her voice—the Queen's voice—laughing in the back of our minds. Our dreams were battlegrounds now.
Aria did not wake.
I sat by her side each night. I spoke to her as if she could hear me. Stories of when I was a pup, of my father's teachings, of the moon hunts. I whispered promises. That I would never let her fall again. That she had given us back our fire. That even if the stars themselves vanished, I would guide her back.
And on the seventh night, her hand moved.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. But then they found mine.
"You caught me," she whispered, voice raw.
I smiled, though tears blurred my vision. "Always."
The pack gathered when the news spread. Joy rippled through the Hollow. For the first time in weeks, laughter rang out. Quiet. Fragile. But real. Even the flames in the sacred pit seemed to burn brighter.
Aria sat up slowly, bones cracking, her fire dim but pulsing beneath her skin. She looked different. Not broken—but tempered, like steel passed through flame. The lines on her face had deepened, her eyes carried knowledge too ancient for her age.
"She's not gone," she said softly, and the joy in the clearing dimmed.
I tensed. "What do you mean?"
"Her power shattered, yes. But not her essence. It scattered. Pieces of her are still out there. In the mist. In the earth. In the blood. She is trying to reform."
The Hollow fell silent.
I stood. My voice rang out across the gathered wolves. "Then we hunt the ashes. We do not let her rise again."
But even as I spoke, doubt gnawed at me.
This enemy had not been born of simple darkness. She had once been like us. Changed by betrayal. Consumed by grief. Her power came from ancient roots, from forgotten magic. Destroying her would not be as simple as killing her body. We would have to cleanse the corruption from the earth itself.
Weeks passed.
We sent scouts to the farthest reaches of the land. We tracked rumors of lingering shadows, of towns haunted by whispers. Each lead brought us closer to understanding the scope of her reach. But the more we searched, the more we realized—we were unraveling a curse older than time.
And one night, a young scout named Fen returned trembling.
"The ruins of Darrowmere," he gasped. "Something festers there. Not her. But something she left behind."
I gathered a team. Aria insisted on coming. I hesitated, but the fire in her eyes silenced me.
We left before dawn.
Darrowmere had been a thriving village once. Now, it lay in ruin. Homes burned. Trees scorched. The very soil looked sick. And in the center of the village, where once stood a temple to the old gods, now rose a spire of bone and shadow.
We approached with caution. The air was thick. Heavy. Time seemed slower here. Every breath was a struggle.
Aria reached out, and the spire pulsed in response.
"This is a shard," she said. "A splinter of her will. It feeds on pain."
We surrounded it.
I gave the order.
"Burn it."
Flames erupted. Aria unleashed her fury, Rhys's cousin drove silver stakes into the base, and I called upon the old howl—one that echoed with the voices of our ancestors.
The spire shrieked.
It writhed. Fought. Tried to pull us into its madness.
But we did not yield.
And when it fell, the village exhaled. The soil brightened. The trees stood straighter. Birds returned to the sky.
We had destroyed the first shard.
But we knew then what the path ahead looked like.
The Queen had seeded pieces of herself across the land. Each one twisted the world, corrupted it. We would have to cleanse them all. Each battle would cost us something, and each victory would taste of ash.
We returned home victorious, but sober. The fight had only just begun.
That night, as I sat beside the campfire, Aria at my side, she looked at me.
"Do you think we'll ever be free of her?"
I stared into the fire.
"Freedom doesn't come all at once. It comes piece by piece. And we fight for each one."
She leaned into me. Her warmth chased away the chill.
And I knew then that even in the ashes, hope could bloom.
The Alpha's war was not yet over.
But neither was our love.