The storm didn't end that night.
It only changed shape.
By dawn, thunder had retreated to the mountains, but the wind still carried the scent of danger—smoke, blood, and the metallic tang of magic. The pack had felt it long before the first alarm sounded, an unease humming through the bond that tied them. Something was coming.
And when it came, it came like lightning.
The northern watchtower fell first.
A flare of witchfire tore through the fog, a spiral of green flame that melted stone and bone alike. The roar of wolves followed—cries of rage, pain, and defiance.
Aria was already running before the second flare lit the sky.
Her wolf pulsed beneath her skin, clawing for release. She didn't need orders, didn't need strategy. Instinct led her, fierce and unyielding, the kind that had carried her through every nightmare before this one.
When she reached the ridge, the world was burning.
Wolves clashed in the mud, their bodies blurs of fur and fang. Witchfire cut through the chaos, searing the earth with trails of unnatural light. And at the center of it all, a figure cloaked in silver flame moved like a phantom—each motion deliberate, merciless.
Aria didn't hesitate. She shifted mid-leap, bones snapping, fur bursting through her skin as her body twisted into that of her wolf—sleek and dark, her eyes glowing like moonlight caught in glass.
She landed on an attacker's back, tearing through flesh before the witch could turn. Blood sprayed, hot and bitter. The scent drove her wolf wild.
More, it whispered. Let them feel what we are.
"Not yet," Aria growled through the link. "We control it."
But control was slipping.
Every strike, every surge of adrenaline made her power hum louder, a rhythm that pulsed in her veins like music. When her claws met the ground again, the soil trembled—and then it glowed.
Silver light burst outward, knocking enemies back in a shockwave of raw lunar energy. Wolves and witches alike staggered, stunned.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then Damian's voice thundered across the bond: "Aria—pull back! You'll drain yourself!"
She barely heard him. The wolf was too loud, the power too sweet.
They came again—three witches moving in sync, their hands weaving dark sigils in the air. The magic struck her chest like fire, sending her sprawling. Pain seared through her body, but before they could strike again, a shadow slammed into them from the side.
Damian.
He tore through the first witch with brutal precision, his wolf massive and obsidian-dark, his eyes blazing gold. The second barely had time to scream before he snapped her spine.
The third raised her hand—but Damian shifted mid-motion, his blade flashing, cutting her throat clean.
When it was over, he turned to Aria, his chest heaving. His eyes—gods, those eyes—were full of fury and fear.
"You could've died," he growled.
Aria forced herself to stand, blood dripping from her jaw. "So could you."
"This isn't about me!"
"Then stop treating me like I'm fragile!" she snapped, her voice echoing through the storm-torn air. "I didn't survive the Trial just to hide behind you now."
For a moment, neither spoke. Rain fell harder, washing the blood from their skin, turning the battlefield to rivers of red and silver.
Then Damian's gaze softened, just barely. "You're not fragile," he said quietly. "You're burning. And I'm trying to keep you from burning out."
Before Aria could reply, a scream shattered the air.
They turned just in time to see the southern line collapse. A new wave of enemies surged through the trees—wolves wearing foreign marks, their eyes glazed and unnatural.
"Possessed," Aria breathed. "They're using witchbinding."
Damian cursed under his breath. "Fall back to the citadel. We can't hold this ground."
But Aria's eyes were fixed on the front line—on a single figure among the attackers.
Kieran.
He moved like a ghost through the storm, his blade dripping with blood, his smile cruel and sharp. Their eyes met across the chaos, and time fractured.
"You can't be serious," Damian hissed when he saw where she was looking.
Aria's answer was a snarl. "He's mine."
She broke into a sprint before he could stop her.
---
The world narrowed to motion and rage.
Kieran turned just as she reached him, their blades meeting with a flash of light. The clash of steel rang through the rain. He laughed, low and delighted.
"I wondered when you'd come."
"Then wonder what it feels like to die," she spat, forcing him back with a flurry of strikes.
He moved easily, almost lazily, parrying each blow as though this were a dance. "Still angry about the past? You should thank me. I made you stronger."
Her blade met his again, sparks flying. "You made me an orphan."
He smiled, sharp and beautiful. "Same thing."
She lunged—and missed. His counterstrike tore through her shoulder, blood spraying across the mud. Pain burned hot, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
Something inside her snapped.
The moonlight that had lain dormant since the Trial flared to life, flooding her veins, searing her skin. Her mark burned brighter than ever before.
Kieran stepped back, eyes wide. "Oh… now that's new."
The light around her grew until it was blinding. Her wolf roared inside her, and when she struck again, the ground itself split open.
Kieran barely dodged the blast, his expression shifting from amusement to awe. "You're not Moon-Blessed," he whispered. "You're Moonborn."
Before Aria could react, he vanished into smoke. The magic that cloaked him left the taste of iron and lightning on her tongue.
She fell to her knees, trembling, the silver glow fading.
Damian reached her seconds later, catching her before she hit the ground. "Aria—hey, look at me. Stay with me."
Her vision swam. The battlefield blurred. All she could see was his face—blood-streaked, fierce, impossibly close.
"They're pulling back," someone shouted. "The enemy's retreating!"
Damian didn't look away from her. "You did this," he murmured. "You turned the tide."
Aria tried to speak, but her strength was gone. Her wolf receded, quiet at last.
"Damian…"
"I'm here."
Her hand found his, fingers slick with blood. "If I lose control again—"
"You won't." His voice was steel. "I won't let you."
Then darkness took her.
---
When she woke, it was night again.
The healers had bandaged her wounds, and the fire beside her bed burned low. Through the open window, she could see the moon—bright, almost full.
Damian sat in the corner, silent, his head bowed.
"You stayed," she whispered.
He looked up, his eyes weary but warm. "You almost died. Where else would I go?"
She smiled faintly, though her chest ached. "They'll come again."
"I know."
"Stronger."
"I know that too."
He rose and came to her side, brushing his fingers gently over her hair. "Then we'll be ready. Next time, we strike first."
Outside, thunder rolled again, distant but certain. The storm wasn't over. It had only begun to gather.
---