The day after the altar crumbled, Selene didn't sleep.
Her body had collapsed the moment Lucien brought her back to the encampment, her limbs trembling with exhaustion and her thoughts scattered like ashes in the wind. But rest eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes, the visions returned—cities burning, the screams of children, her own death looping in vivid detail. No matter how many times she reminded herself it was over, that the altar was destroyed, the darkness lingered.
"Did you see her eyes?" someone whispered just beyond the flap of her tent. "Glowed like silver fire when she came out of that cave."
"I heard the cave collapsed after she left."
"They say the altar was older than the packs themselves. That she broke something sacred."
"No," another voice murmured. "She freed something."
Selene sat up slowly, the coarse fabric of the cot rustling beneath her. Her joints ached. Her bones felt too heavy for her skin. But she ignored the pain, rising and wrapping a woolen shawl around her shoulders.
She stepped outside into the crisp morning air.
Lucien was standing by the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, gaze locked on the horizon like he expected it to split open. His white hair gleamed under the morning sun, and for a moment, Selene just watched him—this man who had been her enemy, her ally, her tether. He looked like a statue carved from moonlight and rage.
"You should be resting," he said without turning around.
"You should be inside," she replied. "It's cold."
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I don't feel the cold."
"I know," she said, stepping beside him. "But I do."
He took a beat before reaching out and wrapping the edge of his coat around her shoulders. It was warm, still holding the heat from his body. She leaned into him without speaking.
Down the hill, the camp buzzed with quiet energy. Warriors moved in silence, cleaning weapons, checking armor, feeding fires that never seemed to burn out. A new symbol had been painted on the banners—silver on black. A crescent moon over a crown of flames.
She didn't ask who designed it.
"I felt it," Lucien murmured. "When the altar broke. It hit like a thunderclap."
"You weren't the only one," she said. "Everyone felt it. Even the trees."
Lucien tilted his head. "You think he felt it?"
"Alaric?" Selene's jaw tightened. "He knows. He always knows."
A pause.
"Then he'll come."
"Let him." She straightened. "He'll find I'm not the girl he buried."
Lucien gave her a sidelong look. "You keep saying that. But what if you are?"
Selene turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
He met her gaze evenly. "What if that girl—the one he broke, the one he murdered—is part of you now? Not a weakness. A memory. A wound that won't let you forget why we fight."
She didn't answer at first. The silence stretched between them like an old scar.
"Then I'll carry her," she said quietly. "She deserves that much."
Lucien nodded.
Behind them, the camp stirred louder. Selene turned to see Mira approaching, her braid wet from the stream and her leathers freshly scrubbed.
"You're up," Mira said, looking relieved. "We were worried you wouldn't wake."
"I didn't sleep," Selene admitted. "What's the situation?"
Mira's expression sobered. "Scouts returned from the northern pass. Alaric's banners are moving east. Fast. He's not regrouping—he's coming."
Selene's blood chilled, but she forced calm into her voice. "How many?"
"Too many." Mira glanced toward the treeline. "But they're not just soldiers. He's bringing Wraiths."
Lucien stiffened beside her. "Wraiths? That's not possible."
"I saw them myself," Mira said grimly. "Smoke where they should've had skin. Screamed like knives. They're bound to him."
Selene's breath caught. "Then the altar wasn't his only source of power."
"No," Lucien said darkly. "It was just the beginning."
The war council was held that afternoon beneath the great oaks.
Selene stood at the head of the table, her hands braced on the weathered wood as warriors and alphas gathered around. Maps had been unrolled, pieces marked with wolf figurines and red stones. Her pulse was steady. Her voice, when she spoke, did not tremble.
"We cannot outrun him," she said. "And we cannot wait."
Murmurs spread.
"You would have us strike first?" asked Darius of the Ironhowl Clan. His beard was silver-streaked, and his eyes sharp with caution. "He has more numbers. More magic."
"We have purpose," Selene replied. "And the terrain. If we push north and meet him at Ridgefall, we can bottleneck his advance. The cliffs will limit his numbers. He won't be able to flank."
"He'll send the Wraiths ahead," Mira warned. "They don't need ground. They move like shadows."
"Then we light the path," Selene said. "Salt, ash, runes carved into the trees. We fight with the old ways."
Silence followed. And then a voice spoke up from the back.
"She's right."
All heads turned.
It was Elder Vessna, oldest of the Moonwatchers, leaning heavily on her staff of blackthorn wood. Her white eyes held the weight of centuries.
"I felt the darkness when it rose. And I felt it when you broke the altar, child," she said, nodding to Selene. "You carry more than fire in you now. The earth knows it. The wolves know it. If we are to survive, we follow her."
Darius inclined his head. Slowly, others followed suit. One by one, they bowed.
Lucien watched them all, his expression unreadable. When he finally stepped forward, he didn't kneel.
He stood beside her.
Where he belonged.
That night, preparations began.
Torches burned brighter. Blacksmiths worked into the early hours, reforging silver into arrowheads and spear tips. Shamans painted protective sigils on armor. Children too young to fight were taken east toward the safer dens. Selene oversaw every detail, exhaustion hanging on her like a second skin.
She didn't stop moving until Mira cornered her near the armory.
"You need to eat," her friend insisted. "And sleep."
Selene shook her head. "There's no time."
"There has to be. You'll collapse otherwise."
"Mira—"
"Selene," she said softly. "Please."
That word—please—broke through.
Selene sat by the fire and accepted the bowl of stew. It tasted like smoke and root vegetables. She forced every bite down while Mira sat beside her in silence. For a few minutes, they were just two women watching sparks drift toward the stars.
"I'm scared," Selene admitted.
Mira nodded. "Me too."
"You don't have to stay. You and the scouts—you could go east, help the children."
Mira looked affronted. "Leave you here to face Alaric alone? Not a chance. You'd probably let him monologue before stabbing him in the heart."
Selene laughed, the sound brittle but real. "I might."
"I want to be there when you do."
The attack came three days later.
Not from the north, but from above.
It was dusk when the sky turned red.
Wraiths poured from the clouds in a wave of smoke and screams, their forms shifting and shrieking as they descended on the forest. The first warning came in the form of howls—high, panicked, and then cut off. Warriors scrambled into formation as darkness rained down.
Selene stood at the front lines, blade drawn, her skin thrumming with energy.
"Hold the line!" Lucien shouted from her left.
The Wraiths were terrible to behold—voids in the shape of men, their eyes molten with bloodlight. When they struck, they didn't pierce flesh—they fed on fear. Selene felt it immediately. A rush of panic, a whisper of death. But she held fast.
And then the rune on her palm ignited.
White light burst from her hand, and when she slashed her blade forward, the energy followed—cleaving through the nearest Wraith like it was made of mist.
The others shrieked and recoiled.
Selene pressed the attack, her sword a blur of silver arcs and burning power. Around her, the warriors rallied, taking heart in her defiance.
"Push them back!" Lucien roared.
Lightning cracked. Fires ignited along the treeline. Mira flanked from the left with a spear in each hand, impaling two Wraiths with a savage yell.
Selene fought until her arms screamed.
Until the air reeked of sulfur and smoke.
Until the Wraiths fled.
At dawn, the field was quiet.
Selene stood amid the ash and broken stone, panting. Her blade dripped with black ooze. Her knees buckled.
Lucien caught her before she hit the ground.
"You did it," he said, voice hoarse. "You held them off."
"For now," she murmured. "But this was just the beginning."
He looked at her, eyes fierce. "Then we fight again. Together."
Selene nodded.
And somewhere in the depths of her soul, something ancient stirred—like a drumbeat in her blood, calling her to war.
She was no longer just a girl with a past.
She was a queen with vengeance in her veins.
And she would burn the world before she bowed to Alaric again.