Ashes of the First Flame
The wolves of Vargfen moved like ghosts through their ruined sanctuary—half-cave, half-fortress, carved into the base of a black-stone cliff. Once, it had been a temple to balance, where werewolves trained under the phases of the moon to protect the Veil between worlds.
Now it reeked of dust, ash, and old grief.
Alaric stood in the hall of Elders, its stone pillars cracked and moss-ridden. Symbols of the Moonborne dynasty still lingered—faded etchings of the triple moon, runes of memory, honor, and fire.
He touched one of the carvings. "What happened here?"
The old alpha, Rhaegor, studied him. "You did."
Alaric turned sharply.
"Not you," Rhaegor corrected. "But your death. Thirteen years ago, when they burned the last Moonborn, the Moon's Flame extinguished. With it, the binding spell that kept the Wraithbound locked beyond the Veil broke. Without you, the bloodline faded. Our packs scattered, hunted. Most were turned… or worse."
"Turned?" Lyra asked.
"Twisted into Skarn," Rhaegor said, voice bitter. "Mockeries of wolves. Savage beasts that feed on human and beast alike. They no longer change with the moon—they hunger for it."
Alaric clenched his fists. "Why didn't you fight back?"
"We did," Rhaegor said. "But prophecy chains even the willing. The elders believed you would return only if the flame died completely. So we waited. We preserved what we could—rites, bloodlines, language—but we lost many."
He gestured to a stone basin at the room's center.
"This was the Flame of Fenraak," he said. "Lit by the first werewolf himself. It burned only when the bloodline thrived. We buried the last ember after you died."
Alaric approached it, drawn to the cold ash. As he reached out, the basin pulsed—once.
Then it sparked.
A single tongue of white fire rose from the ash.
Gasps echoed around the room. Lyra stepped back, eyes wide.
Rhaegor fell to one knee.
"It's true," he whispered. "The Moonborn has returned."
But Alaric was frozen. The flame danced before his eyes, and within it, he saw visions—a child taken in chains, a silver-cloaked priestess chanting ancient words, a tower deep in the frostlands, and above it all… an eye carved in obsidian, watching from beyond time.
He staggered back.
"They're building something," he murmured. "Something old."
Lyra caught him before he fell. "What did you see?"
Alaric's voice was hoarse. "The Circle never meant to kill me. They meant to use me. I was the first... but I won't be the last."
And far away, in the ruins of a cathedral buried in snow, a dark ritual began again—one meant to awaken a second reborn.
Only this one would not rise with mercy in its heart.