The Reckoning of Shadows
Alaric stood frozen.
Mira's scream had shaken more than the chamber—it had ripped through the marrow of everyone present, echoing like prophecy spoken through the bones of time. She lay on the cold stone of the sanctum floor, breath ragged, sweat soaking her brow, her eyes wide and wild as if staring through the veil of the world itself.
"They're not coming," she whispered again, her voice breaking under the weight of revelation. "They're already here."
Alaric's instincts roared to action. Not his wolf—his mind. The part of him sharpened by war, tempered by the horrors of the old world, and reforged in the fire of rebirth. He stepped forward, every movement measured but urgent.
"Clear the chamber," he ordered, voice low but ironclad.
Caelen glanced at him, still crouched by Mira's side. "She—"
"I said clear it." The command rolled like thunder, and even the old priests obeyed. The other healers, council aides, and wardens trickled out, the chamber's heavy doors sealing behind them, leaving only Alaric, Caelen, and Mira.
Mira was trying to sit up now, breath coming in gasps. Alaric knelt beside her and took her hand—not out of comfort, but grounding. Her skin was cold, trembling. Still touched by the void of dreamwalking.
"Talk," Alaric said, eyes locked on hers. "All of it. Now."
She blinked, tears on her cheeks she didn't seem aware of. "The beacon opened… wider than it ever has. I saw things, Alaric. I was things. The dream didn't just show me—it remembered me."
Caelen's brow furrowed, "You mean it showed you your past lives?"
Mira nodded slowly. "One in particular. A woman—she wore my face. She stood in flame, binding something. I think… no, I know she was the one who sealed the First the first time. She swallowed the sun."
Alaric didn't flinch. He simply absorbed the information like he did every war report, every vision, every omen. Cold, calm, unrelenting.
"And the First?"
"They sent more than the Seed," Mira said, voice tight. "What we fought? That's a splinter. A tool. But behind it are concepts—forces without form, wearing names like armor. There are three more. They're shaping things through the cracks in the veil. Through memory. Through me."
Caelen drew in a slow breath. "That's what the creature was guarding. Not just the shard—but the pathway to you."
Mira nodded. "And something else. They're using Warrick. But he's… changing. Not possessed. Evolving. I saw him."
She shivered.
"He had many hands."
The silence in the sanctum was absolute.
Alaric stood. His mind raced with cold logic, the battlefield of his thoughts drawing up maps and timelines. This wasn't just a supernatural threat. This was political, spiritual, existential. The alliances they'd fought to secure, the defenses of Ridgefall, the scattered remnants of Verik's old cells—all of it might crumble under the weight of an enemy that rewrote meaning itself.
"I need full council in twenty minutes," he said. "Caelen, help Mira stabilize. No spells, not yet. Let her speak with the archivists. Everything she remembers goes into sealed record. And put a guard at the sanctum—someone she trusts. Personally."
Caelen nodded.
"And you?" Mira asked, her voice hoarse.
Alaric turned to her, the shadows of his past stirring just behind his eyes.
"I'm going to wake the old wolves," he said.
---
Ridgefall - War Hall, 19 Minutes Later
The stone table at the center of Ridgefall's war hall had borne the weight of centuries. Once a shrine, then a prison, then a meeting place, it now served as the beating heart of Alaric's command structure. Around it sat the last minds capable of holding the realm together.
Caelen stood to the left of the head seat, Mira beside him—pale but lucid, a new weight in her stare. Around the table, the leaders of the Northern Watch, the Scarlet Falcons, the Free Ember Pact, and the Ardent Monks sat tense. An envoy from the Pale Dunes waited quietly, his face unreadable behind his veil. Even the reclusive Thornkin had sent a scout—a rare silver-furred warrior who said little but saw everything.
Alaric entered without flourish.
He no longer wore the ceremonial coat of his rank. Only his dark war leathers, scratched and faded. His hair was tied back, his blade sheathed. The wolf within him did not stir. It watched.
He did not sit.
"Let's not waste time," Alaric said. "The threat has changed. What we thought was coming is already here. What we fought was the beginning of a breach, not its apex."
He gestured toward Mira. "She's seen it. In the beacon. In the dreamwalk. And she'll speak more to what lies beyond. But make no mistake—this isn't a battle of armies anymore. This is a war of memory. Of identity. Of will."
The Free Ember general, a woman named Alessa Thorn, leaned forward. "If this is some kind of mystical propaganda campaign—"
"It isn't," Mira said, voice cutting. "This thing is rewriting what is. I saw the world burning because it remembered it had once been ash. That's what we're fighting. Not soldiers. Not beasts. Concepts."
Silence again.
Alaric's eyes flicked to the Thornkin scout.
"What do your people know?"
The silver-furred scout met his gaze. "The Forest of Howl remembers when the stars screamed. The old myths speak of voices that unmade trees by simply naming them. If she dreams true… they have returned."
"Then we need to cut deeper than defense," Alaric said. "We hit the source. We strike first."
A murmur rippled through the council.
"Strike what?" asked the Dune envoy. "A memory? A dream? A concept?"
Alaric stepped forward, laying out a new map.
"No. We start with Warrick."