The rain had not stopped for three days. It lashed the stone walls of the Lycan capital like the gods themselves were furious.
King Thornak stood at the tall window of his private war chamber, jaw tight, hands clasped behind his back. His armor bore the grime of travel, his cloak was damp at the hem. But his eyes burned with the fury of a kingdom bleeding.
Ruvan, his Gamma, stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"My King. Reports from the northern border came in at dawn. Four more outposts hit. Same pattern, burned wagons, slaughtered scouts. No tracks. No scent trails."
Dain, the Beta, added grimly, "They move like shadows. Whatever magic cloaks them, it's growing stronger."
Thornak turned. "And the villages?"
"Some were taken alive," Ruvan said. "Mostly young ones. Same as before."
Thornak's face was unreadable stone.
"And the southern line?"
Dain hesitated. "Rogues near the Redgrain crossing. Numbers increasing. We lost contact with Captain Vess two nights ago."
"Any signs of blood magic?" Thornak asked.
Ruvan nodded. "Yes. Same sigils as before. The earth at the attack sites is scorched black. Ravens avoid the skies. We believe the sorcerer is pushing closer. Also The king of the Lycan kingdom will be here tomorrow with Aedric. Apparently he knows the heir is here."
Thornak exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, like a wolf scenting the edge of a trap.
Midday in Vargorath brought with it gathering storm clouds, but the true danger had already arrived.
They came like shadows pulled from a nightmare, two dozen rogue wolves, feral-eyed and wrong in the way only cursed things are. Their fur was streaked with ash and old blood, their breath a snarl of rot. Yet they did not attack.
They lingered at the edge of the capital, just past the northern wall, too close to the borderlands, but not close enough to strike.
And among them stood a figure cloaked in black, unmoving. His hood hung low, his face obscured, but every guard who saw him swore they felt the air grow colder. As if death itself had wandered too near.
They didn't speak.
They didn't move.
They simply waited.
In the heart of the citadel, Thornak stood at his war table, studying the latest reports when the heavy doors flew open.
A scout stumbled in, eyes wide. "My king, something's wrong at the northern edge."
Thornak didn't look up. "Speak."
"Two dozen ferals," the scout said quickly. "They appeared out of nowhere. They're not attacking. Just standing there."
That got Thornak's attention.
"Standing?" he repeated, coldly.
The scout nodded. "And there's a man with them. Cloaked head to toe. Can't see his face, but the wolves… they stay close to him. Like he commands them."
Thornak stepped back from the table, his voice calm but heavy.
"Sound the low bell. No alarm yet. Just enough to alert the inner guard. Lock down the western wing."
The guard hesitated. "My king… should we prepare the catapults?"
Thornak's voice was low and dangerous. "No. Not until I know what he's waiting for."
The doors of Queen Maravelle's chamber opened and her personal guard Lucan entered.
"Your Majesty," came his low voice, breath tight with urgency. "There's been an attack. Rogues at the city's Northern gate. The King has already departed to confront them."
Queen Maravelle didn't rise. She merely reached for her goblet, fingers steady despite the storm outside. "How many?"
"Two dozen. Maybe more. He left orders for you to remain inside the palace. I'll double the guard."
She gave a stiff nod as He turned and left. A long silence stretched between her and Selene, broken only by the distant echoes of shouting beyond the palace walls.
Outside the northern wall, the air was heavy with storm and silence. Thornak stood at the front, towering in his Lycan form, black fur bristling, eyes glowing molten gold. Around him, half a dozen of his fiercest warriors including Ruvan and Dain stood ready, massive beasts with claws twitching for blood.
The feral rogues didn't charge. They parted.
At their center stood the cloaked figure, still as death. The stench of rot clung to him like a curse.
Thornak's snarl rumbled low. "Speak, sorcerer," he growled. "Or be torn apart."
The man tilted his head slightly, shadows clinging to his face beneath the hood.
"I came for a word with the heir," he said. His voice was rough, like rust scraping stone.
Thornak's eyes narrowed. "There is no heir here."
The sorcerer's mouth twisted beneath the hood. "Liar," he hissed. "I feel her. Burning bright. Hiding in your castle."
Thornak stepped forward, muscles taut. "Leave. Or bleed."
The sorcerer's hand lifted.
"So be it."
The ground screamed.
From behind him, something emerged, half mist, half monster. The familiar.
It rose on two twisted legs, arms long as spears, eyes glowing like dying coals. Its shriek cut the air in two, and it lunged.
At the same moment, the ferals snapped breaking their stillness and charging.
Chaos exploded.
Lycan warriors met the rush with fang and fury, but they were outnumbered and flanked. One wolf was thrown like a ragdoll into the trees. Another fell beneath claw and fang.
Thornak didn't fall back.
He surged forward with a roar that split the sky.
War had come to Vargorath.
Meanwhile, in the king's chamber, soft light poured through the tall windows. Lara sat with Jasmine, combing through an old scroll, her fingers tracing the faded ink. The world outside was quiet for a moment.
Then Iris burst through the door, pale and breathless. "They're here, feral rogues. Two dozen at the northern wall. And someone is with them. The guards think it's the sorcerer."
Lara stood sharply. "What?"
Iris swallowed. "The king… he's already gone to face them."
"He can't fight him." Lara said shaking her head.
Something ancient stirred inside Lara. A strange pull, like a tide rising. Her breath hitched as light flared behind her eyes, then turned blue. Not just blue, moonfire.
"Lara…" Jasmine whispered, staring. "Your eyes…"
But Lara was already moving, fast, heart pounding, blood singing. The fire inside her had stirred.
Finally, a voice echoed in her mind, warm, fierce, familiar.
You woke me just in time, little moon. Nymeria said.
Lara stumbled for half a heartbeat, but the voice steadied her.
Run. We have work to do.
She burst through the palace halls, her sisters chasing after her, guards turning as she passed, too stunned to speak. Iris called out, "Wait! The king's gone to fight. Lara, stop!"
But she didn't stop.
Outside, clouds churned and wind howled, but Lara ran straight into it. She reached the open courtyard and the change came.
Nymeria erupted.
In her revealed form, she is nothing short of awe-inspiring. A creature shaped by divinity and destined blood, easily matching Thornak in size.
She towers like a sovereign, carved from moonlight itself, her coat a gleaming silver-white so luminous it glows in the dimmest light. Intricate streaks of glowing blue, like rivers of moonfire, run across her sides and limbs, pulsing with life. Her eyes are radiant orbs of silver-blue flame, ancient and unblinking.
Her armor isn't forged, it's etched directly into her being, a fusion of magic and metal that curves over her shoulders and chest in elegant, rune-carved patterns. These markings hum faintly, as though resonating with celestial power. A delicate circlet is fused to her forehead, marking her royal Moonguard lineage.
Nymeria was no mere wolf.
She is the Moon Goddess's last flame. A Queen reborn.
Iris stumbled to a halt, her breath catching in her throat. "Goddess above…" she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest.
Beside her, Jasmine's usually unreadable face was stricken with stunned disbelief. Her eyes widened as Nymeria's towering form emerged.
"That's... no wolf I've ever seen."
One of the palace guards dropped to a crouch. Another simply stared, wide-eyed, unable to speak. One older soldier whispered, "That's not a Lycan… Is it?"
She turned slowly toward Iris.
"Is she the heir they spoke of? The one the sorcerer came for?"
The words landed like thunder. Iris gasped. Behind them, Lucan took off at a sprint straight for the Queen's wing.
Meanwhile outside the northern wall, the clash of war had already begun. The rogue wolves, once still, now attacked with savage coordination, spurred by the familiar's unearthly shriek. Lycans met them with blade and claw, but the air crackled with dark power.
Thornak stood at the center of it all, eyes locked on the cloaked figure who watched the carnage as if it were a mere performance.
The familiar charged Thornak, fast as shadow, claws raised to strike
Then a roar split the sky.
It didn't come from Thornak.
A blur of white-hot silver came crashing from the flank, slamming into the familiar with such ferocity the earth itself groaned. Dirt exploded in a wide arc, as the ferels and lycans were thrown back by the shock of impact.
Nymeria had arrived. Her snarl was thunder.
Before the familiar could recover, she was on it.
Claws like blades raked across its smoke-drenched body. It screeched, the sound more air than flesh, as if pain was foreign to it. Nymeria didn't give it time to vanish or slip into shadow. She slammed it down again, jaws snapping inches from its neck.
The familiar slashed at her shoulder. She tanked the hit, muscles rippling, then bit down on its arm with enough force to make it shriek in something close to fear.
The dark limbs cracked like brittle bone, glowing veins of blood-magic splitting open as Nymeria's fangs sank deep. Light poured from the wound, moonfire, and in that light, the cursed thing could not hold shape.
It writhed and twisted.
And then, with a final, echoing shriek, it turned to dust.
Ash scattered across the field, caught in the wind like snow from a dying star.
Her eyes, swept over the field.
And then she moved, faster than any lycan should have been. One heartbeat, she stood beside Thornak. The next, she was in the fray.
She tore through the ferals like they were made of mist and straw.
One lunged, she caught its throat mid-air and slammed it into the dirt with bone-breaking force.
Another tried to flee, she pounced, claws flashing, spine snapping in a breath.
They fell before her like wheat to the scythe, every strike precise, clean, merciless.
She didn't fight like a beast. She fought like vengeance itself - raw, focused, unstoppable.
Around them, ferels begun to run away. The Lycans, who had been bracing for death, now stared in stunned awe.
And Thornak… he didn't move.
He simply watched, golden eyes wide, breath steady, as Nymeria tore through the battlefield. She moved like moonfire given form, graceful even in destruction, her strikes clean, lethal, and unrelenting.
And Thornak could not look away. His chest swelled, not with dominance or command, but something deeper.
Pride. Awe. Devotion.
His mate.
The power in her, the wildness, the control, it was breathtaking. She fought as though the moon herself had sent her. Beautiful. Terrifying. His equal.
His queen.
Jax let out a low, reverent growl.
She's magnificent isn't she?
"The Goddess didn't give me just a mate. She gave me a Queen." Thornak responded proudly.