The air was too still.
Not a howl. Not a whisper. Just silence—thick, suffocating, and wrong. It clung to the frozen air like a premonition, hovering over the courtyard of the High Pack Temple like a shroud. The snow didn't fall in flurries tonight—it descended in slow, deliberate spirals, each flake a whisper from the gods, bearing witness.
It was the kind of stillness that came before something sacred died.
Above them, the moon hung bloated and blood-red, bathing the mountain temple in its cruel glow. Crimson light pooled over the obsidian stone, washing across the steps like spilled wine. The Crimson Moon came once every century. The last time it had appeared, a king had fallen, and a kingdom had burned.
This time, it came for her.
Luna Althea Caelum knelt at the center of the moon-drenched altar, her hands bound behind her back with silver-threaded rope. Her once-gleaming ceremonial robes—white silk trimmed in sapphire—clung to her body, soaked with snow and the blood trickling from the lashes on her back. The collar of submission wrapped around her throat hummed with quiet malice, a cruel relic that suppressed the power of even the most ancient wolves.
She was not just kneeling in the cold—she was being offered.
Like a sacrifice.
Around her, the eleven members of the High Council stood cloaked in silver robes, their hoods drawn low. Their faces, some ancient and shriveled, others young and unreadable, formed a perfect circle of judgment around the altar. Behind them stood Kael's warriors—his elite Silver Fang Guard—faces blank, armor gleaming. Not one of them moved.
But all she saw—was him.
Alpha King Kael Thorne stood at the foot of the altar, dressed in black ceremonial armor that shimmered like onyx beneath the moonlight. His cloak—deep red, the color of power—billowed slightly with the wind, the crest of the High Pack stitched into the center: a silver wolf pierced by a sword, its head raised to the moon.
He looked like the king he was.
Powerful. Distant. Untouchable.
And utterly heartless.
Althea's breath caught as she tried to meet his eyes. She had always known him better than anyone. She had loved him before the world knew his name. She had watched him rise from the bloodstained dirt of rebellion to claim a throne meant for legends.
And now he stood before her, colder than the snow, watching her die.
She forced herself to speak, her voice hoarse but defiant. "You know I didn't betray you."
His jaw tightened. Just slightly. It was the only crack in his icy mask.
"Speak only when granted," snapped Councilor Myros, stepping forward. His voice echoed unnaturally loud in the silence. "The traitor shall not pollute the sacred rites with lies."
"I was your Luna," Althea whispered, not to Myros—but to Kael. "Your equal. Your fated mate. I stood by your side when the old kings hunted you. I carried your secrets. I bore your mark. And you—you sold me to them."
Still, he said nothing.
A low hiss echoed as the ceremonial dagger was unsheathed—moonstone blade, hilt wrapped in runes, purified by the Moon Temple in the Hollow Cliffs. The blade of final judgment.
Myros raised it high. "By the laws of the Accord, and by the decree of the Moon Council, Luna Althea Caelum, you are hereby stripped of title and bond. The sentence is death."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers—noble Alphas, emissaries, and pack witnesses gathered beyond the stone archways. Death was rare for a Luna. For a bonded mate? Unheard of. The severing of a mate bond could drive an Alpha mad.
But Kael stood still. No tremor. No rage. Not even grief.
Like she was already gone.
Althea swallowed. Her power was dormant beneath the glyphs carved into her skin, but her mind—her mind was still her own. She stared into Kael's eyes, searching for something. A flicker. A crack. A memory.
"Do it then," she whispered to Myros. "Let the Crimson Moon see your treachery."
He brought the dagger to her chest, just above her heart. His lips moved in an ancient chant.
Kael turned his head.
Coward.
Pain bloomed in her chest—searing, divine, cold.
The blade pierced flesh, then spirit.
Her wolf howled—an ethereal, heartbreaking cry only the gods could hear.
Althea fell forward, her body collapsing like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The snow welcomed her. Her blood melted into it, warm and red against white.
And above them all, the moon blazed brighter. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
---
She didn't stay dead.
---
Somewhere far from the High Kingdom—in the forbidden heart of the Whispering Wilds—a baby girl drew her first breath beneath the exact same Crimson Moon.
She screamed.
The midwife flinched.
A surge of energy burst through the air, crackling like lightning across the wooden rafters of the hut. Every candle blew out at once. The wolves outside whimpered and scattered into the trees.
Inside, a woman grunted through pain, her fingers digging into the sheets. "Is she—?"
"She's here," the midwife whispered, cradling the child in trembling hands. Her skin glowed faintly. The baby's silver eyes were wide open—unnatural. Intelligent. Ancient.
No child should look like that.
The newborn blinked once, then twice, and let out a second wail—this one not of pain, but of rage.
The midwife paled. "This isn't normal. This… this child—"
"She's mine," the woman rasped. "Give her to me."
The baby was placed on the mother's chest. She looked down at the girl—at the silver eyes, the faint crescent mark already forming on her collarbone.
Seraphina.
That's what she would name her.
What she didn't know—what no one knew—was that Seraphina Vale had been someone else before. A queen. A Luna. A woman who had died with betrayal in her mouth and fire in her soul.
And now, reborn, she would rise.