The moon hung low over Eir'Vallond, casting a pale glow across the ancient lands. Somewhere far beyond the reach of the noble families, the Watchers gathered in silence, cloaked in shadow beneath the broken arches of their hidden sanctum. They stood like forgotten statues, unmoved by time, eyes fixed on the truth the world had long chosen to forget.
Their leader stood at the center, tall and grave, the weight of centuries resting on his shoulders.
"For three thousand years," he said, his voice cold and still, "we have held the line. We have kept the world from knowing that werewolves walk among them, bound by the power of the Syltharion. But the fountain wanes. The curse spreads. Soon, the balance will collapse."
The Watchers listened without a word.
"The only path forward," he continued, "is to end the fountain's legacy. Sacrifice a few so that many may live."
A quiet murmur stirred among them, like wind brushing over stone.
"Our seer has spoken. The chosen protector must be stopped before he seals our doom. More souls will be smuggled to the Hollow Wastes. Let the curse awaken early. Let the fountain bleed dry."
Far from their chamber of stone and silence, beneath the sacred vaults of the Kirenholme family, the air shimmered with the hum of ancient relics. The Vaultkeeper, robed in faded crimson, carefully unrolled a scroll older than most remembered kingdoms. Relic-light illuminated the words as if the prophecy itself breathed.
When the moon wanes thrice, the chosen shall rise
One of pure heart, yet heavy with sacrifice
To protect the fountain is to bind one's soul
To choose freely is the only way to wield the whole
Eyes turned to Eryndor.
He stood still, a quiet storm brewing behind his gaze. The heir of the Myrelis family, he was born with the gift, but he did not step forward in triumph. His voice, when it came, was steady, but it carried weight.
"I cannot accept this destiny. To give a life—to give love—must not be forced. It must be chosen freely. Or it means nothing."
He looked at Seriane. She stood behind him, her eyes full of sorrow, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. Between them was a bond forged not just by fate, but by every moment they had held each other up when the world tried to pull them down.
"I love her," Eryndor said softly. "And I will not lose her to this."
The council chamber fell into silence.
But far from that echoing stillness, in a chamber no light dared touch, Morvane watched from behind a heavy curtain of dust and cobwebs. His eyes were narrowed, his hands laced behind his back as he studied a faded portrait, his lost love, trapped in canvas and memory.
"This refusal," he whispered to himself, "is opportunity."
He turned to Vareon, who stood just behind him. The young warrior's breath was sharp, his knuckles white where they gripped the hilt of his blade.
"The council will need someone else," Morvane said. "A protector with the courage to seize the fountain's power. That protector will be you."
Vareon said nothing. He didn't need to. His fire had always burned too close to the surface.
"With the fountain," Morvane murmured, eyes gleaming, "I will bring her back."
Outside, the wind stirred the grass and whispered through the stone corridors of Eir'Vallond. The air felt different. Thinner. Restless.
The moon cast its silver light across garden paths and graveyard fields, across the Hollow Wastes and the sacred mountains. It touched every hidden corner of the world and stirred what slept beneath.
The storm had not yet come. But the world was already shifting.
And none of them—Watcher or heir, lover or schemer—could see just how close the edge had become.