Preview
> Even prophecy sleeps — until the cradle wakes.
And when shadow touches innocence, destiny bleeds.
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The fortress of obsidian and flame stood defiant against the Martian winds, its towers lit by eternal fire, its walls wrapped in restless shadow. Yet within its innermost chamber—the sanctum where fire and shadow had once met in harmony—the air trembled with unease.
Selene sat upon her throne, but she did not feel like a queen.
She felt like a mother pacing the edge of a blade.
Her son's cradle glowed faintly, not with ordinary warmth, but with a heartbeat of flame laced through with shadow. The child slept soundly, yet sparks hissed between his tiny fingers like newborn stars, and coils of black mist wound gently from his skin, alive, alert, protective.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Fragile.
Selene traced the cradle's rim—obsidian veined with silver fire—and wondered, as she had every night, if the prophecy she had defied would still find a way through her child.
The Beast stood nearby, motionless as a statue carved of night. His eyes burned dim, exhaustion hollowing the sharp lines of his face. For centuries he had been shadow's blade and prophecy's prisoner. Now free, he carried freedom like a wound. His claws flexed, as though instinct still remembered chains.
Selene broke the silence first.
"The council shattered because of us."
The Beast's voice rumbled low. "Because of them. Fear poisons faster than venom. They fear what they cannot control—him."
His gaze flicked to the cradle. And for a heartbeat, Selene saw it: doubt. Faint, but real.
Her jaw tightened. "They fear because they've seen Lyra's spawn. Her wolf-child is venom given flesh—born of hunger, born of Velkar's madness."
The Beast's shadow twitched across the walls. "And ours is flame and shadow entwined. Tell me, Selene—what makes us different?"
She wanted to say love.
But the word felt fragile against the weight of fate.
Before she could answer, the air changed.
The torches guttered, bending away as if recoiling from something unseen. Shadows stretched too long, swallowing the corners of the chamber. Selene's flames flinched low, shrinking, sensing what came before she did.
The Beast's growl rolled through the air. "They come."
The cradle quivered. The child stirred. His eyelids fluttered—molten gold flashed through cracks of light.
Then the room split.
The shadows tore open like a wound, and from the rupture poured creatures of night—wolves, black as the void between stars. Their eyes burned with sickly green venom; their jaws dripped shadows thick enough to scorch stone.
And within their howls, a whisper crawled—Lyra's voice, soft and cruel.
My gift to you, sister.
Selene's heart froze.
Wolves.
She flung her hands wide—fire exploded outward, devouring the first wave. Their screams shattered the silence like glass. But more came. Dozens. Hundreds. Crawling from cracks that widened with every heartbeat.
The Beast roared, his blades singing arcs of steel and shadow. He carved through them with fury born of centuries, each strike shaking the floor. Black ichor sprayed across the obsidian. Yet for every wolf he felled, two more rose from the rift.
Selene turned—just in time to see one leap, not at her—but at the cradle.
"No!"
Her scream split the chamber. Fire burst from her chest, but the wolf was already midair.
The Beast moved faster than thought. His claw crushed its throat mid-leap, shattering it into ash. But the cradle quaked violently, the child waking with a cry that was not human.
Flames burst from his skin. Shadows spread like wings.
The wolves recoiled. For the first time, even darkness feared.
Selene rushed to the cradle, her body a shield. "Hush, my flame," she whispered, though her voice trembled. The baby's eyes opened—pure molten gold—and his wail thundered through the chamber like the sound of prophecy breaking.
The wolves screamed in answer.
The Beast staggered, his shadow convulsing, clawing to reclaim him. He fought it, but Selene saw it—Velkar's curse trying to pull him back. His roars grew raw, feral.
Selene wrapped her flames around him, burning through his torment. "Stay with me!" she cried, even as the wolves surged again.
The battle dissolved into chaos—fire against darkness, steel against teeth. Each blow drained her more. Her breaths came ragged. She couldn't protect her son, the Beast, and herself forever.
Then the rift deepened.
And from it stepped a woman.
Not Velkar.
Lyra.
She emerged like a serpent uncoiling, beauty dripping venom, her eyes gleaming with wolfish hunger. No crown adorned her, but power radiated from her like perfume.
At her side walked a smaller shadow—barefoot, fanged, and smiling. A girl.
Selene's chest locked. She knew—without needing words.
Lyra's daughter. The wolf-child.
Her eyes glowed green, galaxies of poison swirling within. Her smile was too sharp for innocence.
Lyra's voice was a melody of malice. "Look at you, Selene—singing lullabies to a doomed sun. While you cradle yours, mine already walks, already hunts. She is venom and hunger. She will devour worlds before yours learns to speak."
Selene's flames roared high, but fear bit deeper than fire. Her son was still an infant. Lyra's child already bore fangs.
The Beast, trembling against his shadows, growled, "Leave. Now."
Lyra laughed, soft and silken. "Why would I? Tonight your prophecy dies—not on battlefields, but in the cradle."
She snapped her fingers. The wolves surged.
Selene became fire incarnate. The Beast, fury made flesh. Together they fought as one—fire and shadow intertwined. Wolves burned, steel sang, ashes fell like snow. Yet Lyra only smiled through the ruin.
Then Selene felt it—cold as death—curling through the air.
A tendril of green venom, sliding toward the cradle.
She turned—too late.
The child screamed. Golden eyes flared with light and shadow, but venom sank into the cradle, searing through obsidian, dimming the flame.
The glow faltered. Tainted. Corrupted.
Selene's heart shattered. "No!"
Lyra's laughter split the air. "He is marked. My venom runs through him now—through his cradle, through his breath, through his fate."
The Beast lunged, but Lyra and her daughter dissolved into the rift, wolves vanishing in plumes of smoke. Only their laughter lingered.
Silence fell. The chamber lay in ruin. Ash coated everything.
The cradle, once pure flame, now pulsed faintly green.
Selene collapsed beside it, gathering her child close. "No curse will claim you," she whispered. "No venom will own you. I swear it."
Her tears hissed against the cradle's scorched edge.
The baby's golden eyes flickered—shadow threading through light like cracks in glass.
The Beast sank to his knees, bloodied and shaking. "They have touched him," he whispered. "What was pure... no longer is."
Selene pressed her forehead to her son's. "I will burn fate itself before I lose you."
But her flames burned dim.
Because deep in her heart, she had seen it—the gleam of venom curling within his light. Fire and shadow had been his birthright.
Now venom whispered, too.
And in that whisper, prophecy stirred:
> To choose him is to lose all.
Selene's tears fell. Her son's tiny hand reached for her finger, clutching it tight.
His golden eyes met hers—soft, burning, endless.
And in their depths, Selene saw not only love.
She saw destiny, waiting to awaken.
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Next Chapter Preview
> In the ruins of the council halls, the first rumors spread—
The cradle had cracked, and with it, the balance of the worlds.