The moon of Lunir had always been silver.
Silver meant peace.
Silver meant unity.
Silver meant the gods were watching.
But on the night the legend died,
the moon turned red.
War did not arrive with trumpets.
It arrived with screaming.
Wolfheart and Bloodfang armies clashed beneath the burning sky—
wolves tearing through steel,
humans firing silver-forged arrows,
vampires striking from the shadows.
The Second Moon War swallowed the valley whole.
At the center of the battlefield stood Luther Wolfhart, his silver fur glowing beneath the crimson moon.
His roar shook shields from human hands.
Beside him moved Astra Moonveil, last daughter of the Purebloods.
Silver fire bloomed from her palms, healing the wounded, burning the dead.
Where Luther was fury, Astra was light—
the battlefield's final hope.
For a moment, victory seemed possible.
Until the Bloodfang King arrived.
Claws black as iron.
Fangs wet with ancient blood.
Eyes burning with madness and war.
He slammed into Luther—
bone against stone, steel against flesh.
The earth shook beneath them.
Luther roared back,
a sound that silenced the world.
They struck each other again.
And again.
And again.
Then—
through smoke and screams—
an arrow whispered through the air.
Its tip was carved from Nullstone.
A metal not born of Lunir,
but fallen from shattered stars.
A metal that kills magic.
Silver can wound a wolf.
Nullstone can end one.
No wound made by it can heal.
No fire can mend it.
It turns magic into dust.
The arrow hit Astra.
Her body jerked.
Her silver flames shattered and bled away like dying sparks.
Her healing spells collapsed into nothing.
Even her Pureblood blood—stronger than any mortal—turned cold.
Astra fell against Luther.
Her fingers trembled on his cheek.
"Live… for him."
Her voice cracked like breaking light.
Her eyes dimmed.
Her moon went dark.
And Luther Wolfhart—
strongest wolf in Lunir—
broke.
With no words left, he lifted Astra's body and turned toward the Bloodfang King.
His eyes were no longer silver.
They were white—
pure, ancient, terrifying white.
One final strike.
Flesh tore, bone split,
and king and monster died together.
Luther stood only a heartbeat longer,
holding Astra close
as the red moon watched in silence.
Then he fell beside her.
Two legends.
One grave.
Hours later, a man reached the battlefield.
Valen Wolfhart—Luther's elder brother.
He saw his brother's body.
He saw Astra's lifeless form.
He saw the nullstone arrow still buried in her chest.
And something inside him shattered.
Bones twisted.
Muscles tore.
Grief turned to rage—
rage turned to transformation.
He became the Ravager,
a werewolf form whispered only in ancient fear.
Wolves, humans—
friend or foe—
none survived him.
By dawn, the battlefield was a graveyard.
And the Ravager was gone.
Not dead.
Not captured.
Just… vanished.
Wolfheart Castle buried two legends that day.
Inside its stone walls, a newborn cried—
Riven Wolfhart, too small to understand the price of peace.
Three statues rose outside the castle:
Teacher Orrin.
The Former King.
Luther Wolfhart.
Across the river, in Bloodfang Castle, Princess Nyra watched the smoke rise.
Her father—the Bloodfang King—was dead.
Her mother smiled in victory.
Her little brother was crowned on blood-stained marble.
Nyra said nothing.
Because the wrong word could kill her.
Far from castles and crowns,
in a forgotten village swallowed by shadow,
a scarred man with white eyes sat alone in the dark.
Valen Wolfhart did not die.