The mist rolled in thick waves through the black pines, cloaking the woods in a silence that throbbed with ancient menace. Every tree stood like a sentry, draped in shadows older than memory, and the moon above was just a sliver—barely more than a knife's edge—offering no mercy, only a cold, silver sheen. Seraphina could feel it pressing against her skin, that ancient pulse of something alive and waiting.
Lucien walked ahead, his silhouette a blur of shadows and fur-lined cloak, his steps unnaturally quiet despite the brittle forest floor. Seraphina followed, heart hammering in her chest, the mark on her back flaring with warning. The further they ventured into the unknown borderlands, the deeper the darkness grew—alive, intelligent, watching.
"These woods," she murmured, "they aren't just cursed."
Lucien didn't look back. "No. They are home to what we left behind."
Seraphina felt it before she saw it—the shift in the air, like a breath drawn too sharply. She stopped. So did the wind. So did the forest. Not even the insects dared to whisper.
A figure stepped from behind a crooked pine.
Tall. Ragged. Eyes gleaming like dying stars.
Then another. And another. Until a dozen emerged, then two dozen, crawling out of the shadows like sins that refused to stay buried.
"Who are they?" Seraphina whispered.
Lucien's voice dropped to a low growl. "The Pack of the Damned."
They circled slowly, movements disjointed, as if their bones remembered something their minds did not. Some were half-shifted, trapped between wolf and man—faces too long, claws still bleeding from past hunts. Their clothes were torn, eyes glazed with memory or madness.
"They were once ours," Lucien said. "Wolves exiled, twisted by betrayal, cursed to roam these forbidden woods. They followed a false king who promised them immortality and gave them ruin instead."
A tall one stepped forward, his face twisted in a permanent snarl. "Lucien Valen," he rasped. "The boy who ran. Now come back with a witch."
Seraphina's gaze hardened. "Say that again."
He grinned. His teeth were black. "Witch."
Lucien stepped between them, voice steel. "We did not come to fight."
"Then why come at all?" The Damned circled tighter.
"To call you home."
Laughter erupted, sharp and broken.
"We have no home. Only hunger. And her blood sings to it."
Seraphina's mark flared gold. A gust of wind howled through the trees. The Pack flinched. One dropped to a knee.
Lucien's voice thundered, darker than before. "You still bear the bond. You are wolves, not ghosts. Choose now. Return and kneel—or vanish in the dark."
Silence stretched.
Then the tall one lunged.
Everything blurred. Seraphina raised her hand, and a pulse of searing fire exploded outward. The creature was thrown back, screaming as his fur caught flame. More followed, snapping jaws and snarling rage. Lucien met them head-on, claws flashing.
Seraphina spun, dodged, released the scream of the Cradle. The forest shook. Roots tore from the ground. The Damned howled in pain.
But still they came.
Lucien bled. She bled. But they stood, side by side.
Then, above the chaos, a howl rose. Clear. Dominant. Final.
Lucien raised his head. His voice joined it.
The Pack stopped.
One by one, they knelt.
The tall one, burned and beaten, lowered his eyes. "Alpha."
Lucien's chest heaved, his eyes wild. "The moon chose again."
They were no longer Damned.
Seraphina stepped forward. Her skin glowed. Her voice echoed with ancient power. "We rebuild the old ways. But this time—there will be no kings without queens. No thrones without fire."
Lucien looked at her like she was the first dawn after endless night.
The Pack rose.
The forest breathed.
From the ashes of exile, the Damned had a leader again.
And at his side, the witch who would set the world ablaze.