The flames behind them painted the night in gold and crimson, casting long shadows that danced across the trembling crowd. Seraphina walked slowly, each step a vow of vengeance and rebirth. Her body ached from the near-burning, her cheek still bleeding from the rock, but her soul had never been more alive.
Lucien walked beside her, the wolves flanking them in solemn silence. They did not need chains or commands. They followed her because they recognized her as kin. No longer just a girl accused of witchcraft, Seraphina was something more—something ancient that had awoken within her.
The villagers had fallen silent, fear and awe choking their voices. No one dared approach as the flames consumed the pyre. Mathan had crawled into the mud, watching them with bloodshot eyes filled with venom. But his magic was broken, his authority shattered.
"He'll try again," Lucien muttered, his gaze flicking back. "Fanatics don't know how to die quietly."
Seraphina didn't look back. "Let him try. Next time, I won't just burn the wood."
The wolves began to move, herding the pair gently toward the edge of the forest. Behind them, the last symbols of the fire flickered: the cradle, the wolf, the crown. A prophecy reawakened.
---
In the clearing deeper into the forest, they paused. The air here was different—older, wilder. Ancient trees arched above like cathedral vaults. Silver moss shimmered in moonlight, and the wind whispered names only the marked could understand.
Lucien helped Seraphina sit by a moss-covered stone. "Your mark," he said, pulling back her scorched sleeve, "it's changed."
She looked. The spiral glyph had grown more complex, now glowing faintly with silvery fire. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
"It responded to the Cradle Child," she murmured. "It wasn't just a vision. That child is real. And it came when I was about to die."
Lucien frowned. "There are stories...of beings born outside of time. The Cradle Child is one of them. Herald of Rebirth. Or Ruin."
Seraphina nodded. "I think it's both."
A low growl rumbled nearby. A wolf stepped forward—larger than the rest, with a scar across one eye. It bowed its head.
"He's the elder," Lucien explained. "He wants to show us something."
They followed the wolf through twisting paths, past ancient trees and hidden shrines crumbling beneath moss and time. Finally, they arrived at a stone circle—a place of old power. Bones of creatures long dead were buried beneath the ground. Seraphina could feel them.
In the center, a stone altar stood, carved with the same glyphs that burned beneath her skin.
"This was the place," she whispered. "I saw it in my dreams. The Cradle. This is where I must begin."
Lucien stood silent, then placed a hand on her shoulder. "You've already begun. But to finish what's started, you'll need more than magic."
As if summoned by his words, the wind changed.
A howl cut through the air.
Not a wolf's.
But a man's.
It echoed from the east, then another, answering from the west. Then more—low, tortured howls, filled with agony and rage. The wolves around them bristled. Some whimpered. Others bared their teeth.
"What is that?" Seraphina asked.
Lucien's eyes darkened. "The Forsworn."
She remembered the name. Cursed wolves—men twisted by dark rites, no longer able to shift, no longer sane.
"They've awoken because of me," she realized.
Lucien nodded. "They can smell power. Especially reborn power."
Seraphina stepped into the center of the stone circle. Her mark pulsed wildly now, glowing bright. The fire from before danced in her veins. She raised her arms and whispered the words she didn't know she knew:
"Let the veil part. Let the truth burn. I call upon the old flame. I call upon the cradle."
The wind roared. The trees bowed. Light exploded from the circle, blasting outward in a ring.
And from the shadows beyond, shapes emerged.
Not just Forsworn.
Figures cloaked in black, riding beasts of bone. Eyes glowing with stolen magic. Hunters of the Marked.
Lucien drew his blade. "They're early."
Seraphina's voice did not shake. "Then so is our war."
She stepped forward, the wolves rallying behind her.
And above them all, a final howl broke the sky.
A howl that was not of rage.
But of destiny.
The Last Howl.
---
And so it began—the rise of the reborn witch, the awakening of the lost bloodlines, and the war that would tear open the heavens.
But that night, beneath the storm-forged moon, Seraphina did not run.
She roared.
And the world would never be the same.