Dawn never touched the cursed woods. Not truly.
When light came, it crawled in slow and pale—sickened by the weight of old sins and buried howls. The forest slumbered in perpetual twilight, where time melted into shadow and nothing grew that did not remember pain.
In this hollow light, the Pack gathered.
Lucien stood on the high stone, his cloak torn and bloodstained, his expression carved from iron and moonlight. At his feet, the ancient altar loomed—half-buried, half-cracked. A place once used to swear blood oaths before the gods turned silent.
The Damned had returned.
But they were not forgiven yet.
"We call the Trial," Lucien announced, voice sharp as a blade.
Seraphina stood at the edge of the gathering, her magic curled tight under her skin, smoldering. Her presence was a beacon—both feared and revered. Eyes darted to her, lips trembled at her scent. She wasn't just a witch now.
She was claimed.
Not as a possession.
But as a force.
And the Pack felt it.
Lucien's eyes swept over the circle of kneeling wolves. Some still bore the marks of their exile—blackened claws, ash-smeared skin, eyes hollowed by madness. Others trembled as though the forest might swallow them whole at any moment.
"You want to follow," Lucien said. "But you forget—we are wolves. And wolves must be worthy."
A murmur swept the Pack. No one rose. No one dared.
"The Trial of the Pack is sacred," he continued. "You broke it once. You will not break it again."
He pointed to the fire pit at the center of the circle—an ancient ring of blackened stone surrounded by twelve carved bones, each a totem of a fallen Alpha.
"This fire does not burn with wood," Lucien said. "It burns with truth."
He threw a dagger into the center of the pit. The steel clanged, and the stones began to glow.
"One by one, you will step forward. You will speak the betrayal that exiled you. Speak lies, and the flames will devour you. Speak truth, and the bond may accept you."
A heavy silence settled.
Then the first one rose.
It was the burned one—the tall wolf from the night before, the one who had called her witch. His face was a patchwork of blistered skin and charred fur. Still, he held his head high.
"I was Fenric of the Third Howl," he said. "I followed King Malric when he promised us the moon would kneel."
He stepped into the fire ring.
The stones flared red.
"I killed my Alpha," Fenric said. "I tore out his throat for a promise of immortality. I thought the Pack was weak. I wanted power."
The flames surged.
Seraphina stiffened, ready to strike.
But the fire did not consume him.
Instead, it circled his feet—burning blue.
Lucien's jaw tightened. "The fire accepts your truth. Do you accept your guilt?"
Fenric dropped to his knees, head bowed. "I do."
Lucien turned away. "Then crawl. Crawl until your legs give out. Prove you deserve to stand among us."
Fenric did not argue. He dropped to the dirt and began to crawl—scraping his burnt hands on the rocks, blood marking each inch.
Another stood.
Then another.
Confessions spilled into the circle like spilled wine—bitter, dark, shameful.
"I betrayed my mate for favor."
"I burned the pup who wouldn't shift."
"I abandoned my pack in battle."
The stones listened.
Some turned blue.
Others turned black—and those wolves were dragged away, screaming, devoured by flame and ash, their bones left to whisper in the wind.
Seraphina watched with wide, haunted eyes. She had read of the Trial in ancient witch tomes, but seeing it unfold was something else entirely.
It wasn't judgment.
It was cleansing.
Lucien looked back at her only once, his expression unreadable.
Then his voice rose again. "The Trial is not only for the old Pack. It is for the new as well."
A hush fell.
And the eyes turned—toward her.
Seraphina's breath caught.
"What?" she whispered.
Lucien's voice softened, but it held no mercy. "You are bonded to the Alpha. Your power called them. Your blood awakened the Hollow. You must stand in the fire."
"But I didn't—"
"You hold no oath to us yet. And without the Trial, the bond is incomplete."
Seraphina stared at him, fury and disbelief warring in her chest. "You want me to confess? To what?"
Lucien stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Not confession. Truth. The fire doesn't judge what you did. It demands you name what haunts you."
Her heart pounded.
She looked at the fire—blue, red, black.
It hissed like a sleeping serpent.
And slowly, Seraphina stepped forward.
The Pack fell silent.
She stood before the flame. The dagger still glinted at its heart, daring her.
Her voice shook.
"I am Seraphina of the Cradle. I was born with fire in my bones and death in my shadow."
The flames crackled.
"I watched my sister burn while I lived. I carry her scream in every spell I cast."
The stones glowed red.
"I ran. I hid. I wore silence like armor. I didn't fight for the witches when they fell—I survived."
The fire surged.
Then—turned blue.
Seraphina gasped, falling to one knee.
The bond tightened.
The ground beneath her pulsed.
Lucien stepped beside her, offering a hand. "The Pack sees you."
She took it.
And the fire went still.
The Trial was done.
But the forest had one final word.
A howl rose.
But this time, it wasn't from Lucien.
It was from the Hollow itself.
A deep, ancient sound, vibrating through root and stone.
The wolves froze.
Even the wind dared not move.
Lucien turned toward the trees, eyes narrowing. "It watches."
Seraphina felt it too—the old presence, the one that dwelled beneath bark and bone. The god they had forgotten. The one that punished and preserved.
"The Hollow wants something more," she whispered.
Lucien looked down at the fire pit. The dagger still sat there, untouched. Its hilt gleamed with ancient runes—runes that shifted as they stared.
He reached down.
And picked it up.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the earth quaked. The blue fire vanished.
And a voice echoed in every mind.
"One Alpha is not enough."
Seraphina gasped, clutching her mark.
Lucien staggered, eyes wide.
The Pack dropped, groaning, howling, scratching at the dirt.
Then—silence.
When Lucien looked at her again, his voice shook.
"The Hollow… it named you, too."
She stared at him, heart thundering.
"What does that mean?"
Lucien turned to the Pack.
Then to the dagger in his hand.
Then, finally, back to her.
"It means you're more than my mate. More than a witch."
He walked forward, holding out the blade.
"You're Alpha."
Her breath caught. "Lucien—"
"No thrones without queens," he said, voice sure now. "No fire without you."
He knelt before her, offering the blade.
And one by one, the Pack followed.
Kneeling not just for the wolf.
But for the witch who rose with flame in her hands.