Selene's world had become too loud.
Every heartbeat of the earth thudded beneath her knees. The roots of ancient trees whispered secrets in languages long forgotten. The moon hummed like a lover's breath in her ears.
And the power—
It surged through her like a tidal wave, crashing into every cell, every memory, every scar. She was Selene of the Silvermoon bloodline, yes—but now she was also someone else. Many someones. Echoes of a lineage that stretched through centuries lived within her, breathing through her lungs, seeing through her eyes.
Maera knelt beside her, reverence in her gaze.
"The Rite of Remembrance is complete," she whispered, voice thick with awe. "The past lives within you now."
Selene struggled to her feet, her body trembling not with weakness, but with restraint. Every inch of her ached to move, to run, to fight—to claim.
Lucien's hand steadied her.
"Selene?" His voice was quiet, but it held that thread of worry he couldn't hide from her. "Are you... you?"
Her eyes met his. "I'm more than I ever was." She touched his cheek with blood-smeared fingers. "And I remember you."
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I remember your soul," she said softly. "From a life before this one."
Lucien stiffened, lips parting in silent shock. But she didn't explain further. There would be time for that. Or maybe not. The world wouldn't wait.
Maera rose, brushing earth from her palms.
"We must move. The Rite always sends a signal. Magic of this magnitude—someone will feel it."
"They already have," Selene said, her gaze turning northward.
To the mountains.
To him.
---
The hidden path from the glade wound through dense forest, but Selene walked it like she had carved it herself. The others followed—Lucien, Maera, and three of the temple wolves sworn to the old gods. No one spoke. There was reverence in the silence, but tension too. Even Lucien felt it, his warrior instincts honed enough to recognize the change.
Selene was different now.
Not just stronger, but older. She moved with a grace not learned in this life. Her senses were too sharp, her intuition too precise. Even the forest responded to her, vines shifting slightly aside, birds calling softer in her wake.
They reached the sanctuary ruins just before dawn.
The stone structure had once been a temple to Lira, the moon goddess. What remained were moss-covered columns and half a dais, shattered during the last purge. But the bones of the place still held power. Sacred ground.
Selene knelt at the base of the dais, running her fingers along the grooves etched into the stone.
"This is where I was crowned once," she murmured. "A thousand years ago."
Maera watched her carefully. "You remember the Rite of Ascension?"
"I remember everything." Her voice was distant, gaze haunted. "I remember the council's betrayal. I remember the fire. I remember... the child."
She went quiet.
Lucien stepped forward. "What child?"
But Selene didn't answer. Her fingers curled into fists against the stone.
"We don't have time for history," Maera said quietly, though not unkindly. "Alaric will move. We must plan our strike."
Selene stood. "No. He expects us to strike. He's already preparing for war. We'll give him silence. We'll make him doubt."
Lucien tilted his head. "You want him to underestimate us?"
"I want him afraid," Selene corrected. "Not of me—but of what I might become."
She turned to Maera.
"Send word to the Ironhowl pack. Tell them the Silvermoon line has risen. Tell them to choose a side."
"They won't like that," Maera warned. "Their alpha—"
"Will bow," Selene interrupted coldly. "Or he will burn."
There was no threat in her tone, only certainty. It chilled even the air.
---
Far to the north, Alaric stood in the heart of his stronghold, watching a silver wolf burn in the brazier.
His expression was unreadable.
The wolf—a scout from the eastern front—had turned rogue, pledging loyalty to the Moonborne resistance. He'd been caught whispering names in the dark. Selene's name among them.
"Another fool," Nyra said lazily, reclining on a fur-draped bench. "They pop up like weeds now that she's returned."
"She hasn't returned," Alaric murmured. "She's awakening. There's a difference."
Nyra rolled her eyes. "Semantics."
But Alaric wasn't listening to her. His gaze was fixed on the flames, where the scent of burnt fur and bone filled the chamber.
"She's not ready yet," he said. "She remembers, but remembering isn't mastering. She's a flickering candle. Not a storm."
Nyra stood, stretching like a panther. "Then we snuff her out before she becomes one."
"No," he said again, slower this time. "Let her come. Let her gather her broken wolves, her relics, her hope. Let her think she can win."
He turned, and there was something dark and holy in his eyes.
"Because when she falls again, it will be final."
Nyra's smirk faltered.
---
That night, Selene dreamt.
She stood in a field of stars, weightless and glowing. In front of her, a woman waited—her older self, the one who had stepped into her during the Rite. The woman's hair was longer, silver shot with starlight. Her eyes were kind but fierce.
"You're afraid," the echo said.
"I'm not," Selene replied, though her voice shook.
"You're afraid of failing them again. Of losing everything again."
Selene looked away. "They died because of me."
"They died with you. Not because of you. And they would do it again."
The stars pulsed around them.
"What if I'm not strong enough?" Selene whispered.
"You are. You just haven't believed it yet."
The older self stepped closer and pressed a hand to her chest.
"The world broke you once. Now break it back."
Selene woke with tears in her eyes—and power thrumming beneath her skin.
---
Three days passed.
During the day, Selene trained—harder, longer, deeper than ever before. Not just with weapons, but with magic. Maera taught her how to harness memory-magic, pulling on the bloodline within her to tap into skills from lifetimes past. Swordplay from Queen Ysolde. Spellwork from High Priestess Amaris. Battle strategy from Warlord Cira.
At night, she planned.
The rebellion was still a whisper in the east, but packs loyal to the old ways had begun to stir. Scouts returned with news of unrest in the Blackfang lands. One of the border towns had displayed the Silvermoon sigil in firelight. A risk—and a message.
Lucien was always near, though he kept his distance sometimes, watching her like he was learning her all over again. She caught his gaze more than once, heavy with something unspoken.
On the fourth morning, he finally said it.
"You're not the same."
Selene turned to him, brushing sweat from her brow. "I told you. I remember."
"That's not what I meant."
He stepped closer. "You move differently. Speak differently. Like you're wearing someone else's skin."
"I'm not." She looked him dead in the eye. "I am someone else. And I'm still me."
Lucien frowned. "I don't want to lose you, Selene."
She softened, stepping into him, pressing her forehead to his.
"You won't. But I have to change. To beat him, I can't be the girl who ran. I have to be the woman who fights."
He nodded after a long moment, but there was still pain in his eyes.
---
That evening, a messenger arrived, half-dead from exhaustion, carrying a blood-stained scroll.
Selene read it in silence. Then again. And again.
Maera touched her arm. "What is it?"
She looked up, voice hollow. "He slaughtered the Moonreach enclave. Burned the sacred pools. Killed every child."
Lucien cursed under his breath.
Maera's face went pale. "There were over fifty there. Most of them unarmed."
"He did it to draw me out," Selene whispered. "To make me feel it."
She crushed the scroll in her fist.
"No more waiting," she said.
Lucien tensed. "You want to strike now?"
"No. Not yet. But we begin."
She turned to the rest of the room, where her warriors stood at attention.
"Alaric believes he can break us with fear. We will show him fear is a blade we wield too."
---
That night, they rode.
Selene led them east, cloaked in silence and shadow. Twenty strong, wolves and warriors trained in stealth. Lucien rode beside her, blade across his back, eyes hard.
Their target: one of Alaric's supply outposts—fortified but lightly guarded, hidden in the crag hills.
They reached it by dawn.
Selene gave no speech. She didn't need to.
When the signal arrow flew, the wolves descended like fire.
Selene was a blur in silver, cutting through soldiers with inhuman grace. Lucien was thunder beside her, a whirlwind of steel and fury.
By sunrise, the outpost burned.
Selene stood amid the flames, hair whipping in the wind, silver eyes alight with vengeance.
"This is only the beginning," she murmured.
Far away, on his mountain, Alaric opened his eyes—and smiled.