Three days had passed since the altar crumbled into ash.
Three days since Selene walked out of the cave with shadows in her veins and fire in her bones. The packs didn't know the details, but they felt it—the shift in the wind, the tremor in the earth. The darkness that had clung to the western border for over a decade had vanished overnight.
And with its silence, a name bloomed like wildfire across the region:
The Moonborne Queen.
She didn't ask for the title. She hadn't earned it through lineage or marriage. It was born the moment she screamed into the dark and survived it. And now, it echoed across every whispered circle of wolves bold enough to dream of rebellion.
Selene sat alone on the balcony of an abandoned manor house nestled in the cliffside—her temporary stronghold.
The sea roared beneath her. The sky was bruised with clouds.
She wore black. Not mourning. Not armor. Just quiet rage stitched into silk. Her silver hair, streaked with blood at the roots, danced in the wind. The crown that had belonged to her mother now lay re-forged beside her. No longer broken. No longer ceremonial. It had thorns.
Behind her, Lucien's presence was constant, steady as breath. He hadn't left her side, not since the altar. Not since she'd collapsed into his arms, eyes still glowing from whatever ancient power had answered her call.
Tonight, the others were arriving.
The first pack leaders who'd dared to answer the summons. The ones who hadn't pledged fealty to Alaric. Or worse—the ones who had, and now wanted to break free.
"This is dangerous," Lucien murmured behind her. "Too many shifting loyalties in one room."
Selene didn't look at him. "That's exactly why it has to happen."
"You could be walking into a trap."
"I know." She rose, every movement deliberate. "Let them try. Let them see who I've become."
Lucien didn't argue further. He knew better now.
---
The great hall of the manor had once been a ballroom, its chandeliers long shattered, the marble floors cracked with time. But it held power. Echoes of old bloodlines. Royal blood.
Selene stood at the head of the room, a simple obsidian pendant at her throat—the only visible mark of her claim. She didn't need robes or armor. Her presence was enough.
The room filled slowly.
From the north, came Alpha Caelan of the Frostfangs, flanked by warriors cloaked in gray furs and suspicion.
From the east, the Emberclaw twins, who had once been loyal to Alaric—until he slaughtered their youngest sister in a power play gone too far.
From the southern marshes came a silent woman in crimson, face veiled, known only as The Seer. She claimed to dream of the end of Alaric's reign.
By nightfall, six packs were represented.
Lucien stood at Selene's side, his arms crossed, gaze razor-sharp. Though he hadn't claimed the Alpha title, everyone in the room recognized the danger in him. He was her sword—and some whispered, her mate.
Selene raised her voice just enough to cut through the low murmurs.
"Thank you for coming," she said. "You know why you're here. You know what he's done. I won't waste your time with stories you've already bled through."
Alpha Caelan tilted his head. "We've heard the whispers. But that's all they are—whispers. What proof do we have that the darkness is truly gone?"
Selene stepped forward. "You want proof?" she asked softly. "Fine."
She raised her palm.
A thin line of red light glowed beneath her skin—the last trace of the altar's power, nestled in her blood. The chandeliers flickered with sudden heat. The ground trembled slightly beneath their feet.
Gasps spread across the room.
"I walked into the dark," she said, voice like iron wrapped in velvet. "I faced what none of you would dare touch. And I came back whole."
The Seer bowed her head slowly. "The Moon chooses her vessel," she said. "You carry the echo of something older than any crown."
The Emberclaw twins exchanged glances.
"She's real," one of them muttered. "The prophecy. The reborn queen."
Alpha Caelan still looked unconvinced. "Even if that's true, how do we know you're not just another tyrant in a prettier dress?"
Selene's smile was razor-thin. "Because I don't want your obedience. I want your alliance. I won't sit on a throne made of broken wills. But I will burn every inch of Alaric's empire to ash, and I won't wait for permission to do it."
A silence fell.
Then, from the back of the room, a slow clap echoed.
Everyone turned.
A figure stepped forward, cloaked in black, silver hair braided back like steel wire.
"Impressive speech," the woman said. "But words only go so far."
Selene's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The woman removed her hood. "Call me Vespera. I represent the Ironfangs."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
The Ironfangs were rumored to have been wiped out. Slaughtered by Alaric's forces in the first wave of his conquest. And yet, here she stood—alive, defiant.
"We've been in hiding for years," vespera said. "But we've watched. Waited. You're the first real threat to him. So we came to see if you're worth following."
"And?" Selene asked coldly.
Vespera's eyes gleamed. "You might be."
She stepped forward and dropped something onto the table between them—a blood-stained crest torn from a royal standard. Alaric's.
"We killed one of his envoys last night. Let that be our answer."
The room stirred.
Selene reached for the crest, held it in her hands like a heartbeat. She looked around the room, and in that moment, something changed.
This wasn't a gathering anymore.
It was a war council.
---
That night, the plans began.
Maps were unrolled across the cracked ballroom floor, ink scrawled with new frontlines. Names of sleeper cells, sympathizers, traitors. Resource lines. Safehouses. Weak points.
Selene crouched low beside the maps, her eyes scanning every line. Her mind moved faster than ever, fueled by vengeance and something older—a pull from the moon, from the bloodline she'd inherited and the legacy she was about to reclaim.
"We strike in phases," she said. "We bleed him slow before we burn him fast."
Lucien spoke next, voice hard. "He'll retaliate the moment we make a move. Are we ready for that?"
Caelan nodded reluctantly. "If we wait any longer, we'll be swallowed whole. Better to die fighting than kneeling."
"No one's dying," Selene said quietly. "Not if I can help it."
---
Later that night, after the hall had emptied and the moon cast silver light across the sea, Selene stood alone again on the balcony.
Lucien joined her, silent at first.
"You did it," he finally said.
She didn't respond.
He tried again. "You turned whispers into weapons."
Selene exhaled slowly. "It's only the beginning."
Lucien tilted his head. "You're scared."
She turned to him, surprised.
He shrugged. "Only I'd know it. But it's there."
Selene's eyes softened. "I'm scared of failing. Of becoming the very thing I'm trying to destroy."
"You won't," he said.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've seen what you look like in the dark," he said. "And even then, you reached for the light."
She didn't reply. Instead, she leaned into him—just for a moment. Just enough to remind herself that even queens could lean without falling.
Below, the sea roared.
Above, the stars burned.
And somewhere far away, a man with a black crown sat on a throne of bones—and felt something in his chest tighten.
Alaric opened his eyes slowly in the dark.
He didn't sleep often, but when he did, the nightmares never used to follow him.
Tonight, however, they whispered one word:
Selene.
And for the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar gnaw at the edges of his heart.
Not rage.
Not arrogance.
Not hunger.
But fear.