The wind rolled low over the forest like the growl of a beast too large to see, rustling leaves that whispered secrets only wolves could hear. In the heart of the Silverfang territory, beneath a half-moon sky and trees that stood like silent sentinels, Seraphina walked beside Lucien with the air of one both hunted and divine. Her boots crunched over damp undergrowth, but even the sound of her steps seemed muted here—like the woods were listening, weighing her worth.
Lucien didn't speak. He didn't have to. The aura around him had grown darker, thicker, like he carried the weight of a thousand blood-soaked winters on his shoulders. Since the Sanctum, he had been quieter, watching her with a new intensity. As if something in her awakening had awakened something in him.
They approached the border.
It was not marked by signs or fences, but by the very feeling of the earth. The trees shifted subtly, their bark darker, leaves tinted red where green should have been. The air thickened, brimming with unseen eyes and unsaid warnings. Seraphina felt the press of it all—like invisible teeth brushing against her skin.
Lucien stopped, lifting a hand.
"They're here," he said softly.
As if summoned by his voice, a dozen shadows emerged from the woods. Wolves, not just in beast form but in that strange in-between—part man, part monster. Their eyes glowed, some gold, others ice-blue, but all of them held one thing in common: wariness.
A woman stepped forward. She was tall, her silver hair braided back with bones, and her shoulders bore the marks of past conquests—scars and ancient sigils burned into flesh. She looked Seraphina over once, like a blade appraising prey.
"You bring the witch across the border," the woman said. Her voice was sand and steel.
Lucien nodded. "She carries the Cradle's mark. The Forbidden Ground accepted her. She is no longer just a witch."
The woman's lip curled. "We've heard the howls. The ground burns where she walks. The sky bleeds when she screams. That sounds like danger—not legacy."
Seraphina stepped forward. "And yet here I stand."
The wolves growled, but none moved. Power rolled off her in slow, deliberate waves. The mark on her back burned again, seeping light through her cloak like veins of fire.
The woman tilted her head. "You speak boldly. But words are not enough."
Lucien met her gaze. "Then let her prove it. The Rite of Dominion."
A ripple ran through the pack.
"You would invoke the old law?" the woman asked, disbelief darkening her features.
Lucien nodded. "It's the only way."
The woman hissed through her teeth, then turned sharply. "Follow. If she survives the Rite, she'll earn her place. If not… her ashes will feed the trees."
---
The Ritual Grounds lay deep within the borderlands, where the veil between worlds was thin and the spirits still spoke in bone and blood. Ancient totems loomed—twisted wood carved into snarling faces, set ablaze with violet fire. The ground beneath their feet was marked with concentric circles drawn in ash and blood.
Lucien stood outside the circle, but Seraphina stepped in. Alone.
The rules were clear: no help, no mercy. Only power.
The wind died. Silence fell.
And then the first shadow struck.
It was not a beast of flesh, but memory. Her mother's death—the flames, the screams, the smell of burning skin. It surged at her with claws shaped from trauma, tearing at her soul.
She fought. Not with fists, but with flame. Her mark glowed brighter, searing through the illusion. The shadow wailed and broke.
Then came the second: Lucien, dying. Betrayed. His body cold in her arms.
She cried out, but didn't fall. Instead, she embraced the image, kissing the illusion's forehead. "You are fear. But I am fire."
It crumbled like ash.
One by one, the visions came. Demons of doubt, beasts of pain. And she faced them all.
By the time the last one fell, she stood soaked in sweat and blood—not all of it hers. Her breath came in ragged gulps, her hands glowing like coals.
The pack watched in silence.
The silver-haired woman stepped forward, eyes wide. "You… endured."
Seraphina looked up. "No. I ruled."
Lucien entered the circle. He placed his forehead to hers, hands on her burning cheeks.
"You passed."
"No," she whispered. "I claimed."
The totems burst into flame, casting shadows that howled.
And from the edges of the trees, other wolves appeared—packs from beyond, drawn by the Rite.
The first wolf howled. Then another. And another.
Until the forest trembled.
And in the center of it all, Seraphina stood like a queen carved in fire.
The witch was no longer merely accepted.
She had become law.