The night bled into morning, and the air carried the sharp scent of rain.
It had been three days since Kieran's visit, and still the forest whispered his name. Every patrol reported strange tracks that vanished in the mist, scents that shifted like smoke, shadows that moved where none should. The wolves of the Black Moon pack had become ghosts themselves—silent, watchful, restless.
And through it all, Aria couldn't shake the echo of Kieran's words.
The Moon may have chosen you, but darkness always claims its own.
She stood now at the edge of the western watchtower, cloak whipping in the wind. Below her, the valley spread wide and wild, dotted with torchlight from the border posts. Rain drizzled softly, blurring the edges of the world.
Behind her, footsteps. Slow. Familiar.
"You haven't slept," Damian said quietly.
"I could say the same about you."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "Leaders don't get to sleep when the world starts sharpening its claws."
Aria turned, studying him. His hair was damp, his shoulders tense beneath his black tunic. The Alpha mask never slipped—not in front of his people, not even here. But she could see the exhaustion etched in the corners of his eyes.
"You can't watch the borders forever," she murmured. "They'll come when they're ready. Not a moment before."
"And what do you suggest? That I sit and wait while enemies circle like vultures?"
Her gaze hardened. "I suggest you trust your pack—and me."
The words lingered, heavy with challenge. For a heartbeat, his eyes flared silver, his wolf stirring beneath the surface. Then the tension eased, replaced by something softer.
"I do trust you," he said. "That's what terrifies me."
Aria blinked. "Why?"
"Because I can't control what you're becoming."
The wind shifted. The air between them thrummed with power—the faint pull of the bond that tied them. It wasn't just love anymore. It was something older, deeper, forged by trial and blood.
"You're not meant to control me," she whispered. "You're meant to stand beside me."
He exhaled slowly, and for the first time that night, he looked almost human again—just a man fighting a war he didn't choose.
Then, before either could say more, a horn split the air.
Low. Urgent. From the northern ridge.
Damian's head snapped toward the sound. "That's the second post."
Aria's wolf surged beneath her skin, muscles coiling. "Let's move."
---
By the time they reached the ridge, the rain had turned to a storm. Lightning flared across the sky, illuminating the trees in flashes of white and shadow.
The patrol was already in formation—four wolves standing guard over a stretch of ground torn open like a wound.
Damian crouched, scanning the tracks. "There were six—no, seven of them," he murmured. "Not rogues. Organized. They knew where to strike."
Aria knelt beside him, fingers brushing the wet soil. The scent was unmistakable—ash, blood, and something that burned cold, like silver.
Her pulse spiked. "Witchfire," she said. "They used it to mask their scent."
Damian looked up sharply. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "Witches haven't allied with wolves in centuries. If they're involved now…"
"Then this isn't just a territorial strike." His eyes darkened. "It's a declaration."
Before he could stand, one of the guards approached, holding out a small object. A medallion, half-buried in mud, engraved with a crescent and flame.
Aria's breath caught. "That's from the Crescent Dominion. They were wiped out decades ago."
"Apparently not," Damian said grimly. "Or someone wants us to believe otherwise."
The rain intensified, drumming against their armor.
Aria rose, the medallion clutched in her hand. "They're testing our strength—probing the borders. If they wanted war, they'd have struck harder. This was a message."
Damian's gaze met hers. "Then what's it saying?"
She turned toward the forest, her eyes glowing faintly silver. "That the Moon's chosen isn't safe in her own land."
---
That night, the council gathered again in the Alpha Hall. The torches burned low, shadows crawling along the ancient walls.
Elder Roran sat at the head of the table, his expression grave. "Reports from the outer packs confirm similar attacks. Crescent symbols, coordinated timing. Whoever they are, they're moving fast."
Damian stood at the end of the table, hands braced on the wood. "We'll fortify the borders. Double patrols. No one crosses without my command."
Another elder leaned forward. "And what of the girl?"
Aria's head snapped up. "The girl has a name."
The elder didn't flinch. "You brought the Moon's wrath into our territory, child. You think these attacks are coincidence? Power attracts power. They come for you."
Damian's voice dropped to a low growl. "Enough."
But Aria didn't back down. She met the elder's stare, her tone steady. "If they come for me, then let them. I won't hide."
"Bravery and recklessness are not the same thing," Roran warned.
"No," she said softly, "but sometimes they need to be."
Silence followed. Then Damian straightened. "The decision is made. Aria stays. Anyone who challenges that challenges me."
His authority silenced the room. The elders lowered their gazes, though their fear still hung thick in the air.
When the meeting ended, the thunder had quieted, leaving only the steady rhythm of rain.
---
Later, Aria found herself in the Moon Garden—the oldest part of the stronghold. The statues of ancient Alphas stood weathered but proud, their faces turned skyward as if still waiting for guidance.
She knelt before the fountain at the garden's center, tracing the carved sigil of the goddess. The water shimmered faintly, reflecting her pale face and the faint light in her eyes.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why choose someone who doesn't know how to be what they need?"
The wind answered with silence.
Then, faintly, a voice.
Because you are what they fear—and what they need most.
Her breath hitched. The fountain's reflection rippled, and for a moment, she thought she saw another face in the water. A woman's, serene and fierce, crowned in silver light.
Then it was gone.
"Aria."
She turned. Damian stood in the archway, watching her. His expression softened as he approached.
"You were talking to her again," he said.
"Maybe she was talking to me."
He smiled faintly. "What did she say?"
Aria's gaze lifted to the storm-laced sky. "That fear and need are the same thing, sometimes."
Damian stopped beside her, their shoulders brushing. "Then maybe that's what we are too."
She looked at him, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. For a heartbeat, there was no war, no prophecy—just the quiet ache of two souls who had already lost too much.
Then thunder rolled again, distant but certain.
Aria straightened. "They're coming."
Damian nodded, eyes dark with resolve. "Then let the storm find us ready."
---