The shadow-thread still coiled from Dahlia's lips, thin as smoke yet heavier than iron. My hand burned where the rune had branded itself, the searing pulse tethered to her heartbeat. I had thought it was our bond—proof she lived. But now, as the glyphs beneath us writhed awake in the Bloodsong's crimson glow, I knew it was something older, something hungrier.
The mark on my palm cracked. Not ink, not scar. It shifted like molten iron, the Ruthless Alpha's Oath unraveling into jagged sigils that pulsed with black fire. Lines bent and rewrote themselves, ancient letters I did not recognize carving into my flesh. The pain was not pain—it was possession.
Sareth staggered back, ash clinging to his palms. His voice broke, terror spilling out. "That mark is no longer yours—it listens to another master now!"
Dahlia convulsed, body jerking in my grip. More shadow tore loose from her chest, pulled by the rune, dragged into me like poison. Her lips moved, whispering the Bloodsong tongue:
"Veyrathuun thalos… sira ven draem… ulthar blooden mor."
("The Old Father stirs… silence becomes flesh… the blood is unmade.")
The glyphs on the sanctuary floor flared, glowing with every syllable. The choir was no longer quiet; it sang through her, through me.
I clenched her hand tighter, refusing to let go, even as the rune scorched my palm deeper, rewriting who I was. The Ruthless Alpha's Oath had betrayed me.
And in its betrayal, it crowned me with something far worse.
---
Darkness pressed against me like water, thick, endless, suffocating. Yet a tether glowed faintly—a thread of shadow biting into my chest, trailing away toward the Hollowroot's roots, where veins of black light writhed like serpents in the soil. I realized then—it was a leash. Not freedom. Not breath. A chain binding me to something vast beneath the world.
Above me hung the broken moon, split open like a wound. From its cracked belly spilled rivers of white fire, bleeding into the endless dark. And behind that light—behind the shatter—waited a voice.
It did not speak as mortals do. It tore into me, syllables written in pain and silence:
"Ethurion velar, Noxthuun veyra, Silvarreth undral…"
("By root and silence, the Old Father wakes, the veil shall bleed.")
The sound shook the dream-realm. Each word etched itself into my skin, burning through the glyphs already branded there. My veins glowed faint red, as though the Bloodsong itself had been poured into me.
I tried to scream Damon's name—but the shadow-thread pulled tighter, strangling the sound into silence. Only a whisper of ash escaped my lips.
And then I saw it.
A crowned figure, wrought of shadow and flame, rising from the Hollowroot's roots. The crown itself was jagged bone, dripping with starlight and blood. Its face… hidden, smothered in night. Yet I knew—whether I wished it or not—that it was watching me.
Every step it took toward me made the broken moon bleed brighter, the leash bite deeper.
"Witness," the voice rumbled through the shatter, neither male nor female, but older than gods, "your silence is the key. Your waking, the unmaking."
I clutched my chest, trying to tear free the shadow-thread, but the crown's gaze pinned me in place.
I was no longer dreaming.
I was being summoned.
---
Far below the waking world, the Hollowroot groaned. Whole caverns collapsed in waves of dust and bone. Black rivers bled themselves dry, their beds cracking into jagged veins that spread across the land. The sky above those desolate plains fractured further, lightning of ash tearing clouds into rags.
Temples of rival cults, once sworn to silence, broke in screams as priests fell upon their knees. They felt it—the stirring of the Old Father. Not rumor. Not dream. His shadow pressed against their lungs like iron.
One priest, throat bleeding as he clawed words into the air, croaked the chant first:
"Velthara nox, coroneth shai, Veyrathuun valdraeth unnar…"
("Crown of shadow, blood of moon, the eldest silence comes too soon.")
Others followed, voices clashing into one discordant choir, their bodies shuddering with the weight of the words:
"Coroneth Noxthuun, velmora draeg, ulthir devora ven drael…"
("When the Shadow Crown descends, no oath nor bond shall hold—love itself shall be devoured by hunger.")
As they spoke, a tremor rippled outward. Idols cracked. Villages hundreds of miles away collapsed into their own shadows, leaving only silence.
And beneath it all, in the black womb of the earth, something vast stretched—its chains already fractured, its hunger seeping through stone and prayer alike.
The Silent Coronation had begun.
---
The dream-realm quaked beneath Dahlia's feet, roots splintering under the weight of a broken sky. The moon above, already fractured, bled rivers of silver light into the Hollowroot's veins.
From behind that ruined moon came the voice again—ragged, endless, a tongue that felt older than breath itself:
"Veloraeth drael… uthmir veyrun… thalos devraen…"
("Your love will not save you. His oath was never his to give.")
The Witness stepped from the shivering constellations, its face veiled in shifting runes that cut the air like blades. Dahlia's chest heaved in defiance.
"No," she whispered, her voice a shard against the tide. "He swore it to me."
The Witness's reply rolled like thunder through the Choir-hall:
"Silvarreth uthiel, coroneth drael… velthuun ulmira nox…"
("Every oath is ash, every vow devoured—the Shadow Crown cares for none.")
Her knees buckled as the roots beneath her split, her spirit drained by every word she resisted. She staggered, clutching her chest, even as the runes swirled tighter around her wrists, binding her to silence.
In the waking world, Damon felt her hand twitch in his grip. Hope struck him like lightning—only to die as her fingertips blackened, the veins of her hand trailing shadow.
"Dahlia…" his voice cracked. He pressed her hand harder against his chest, as though his heart could burn the darkness out. But the black spread, slow and merciless, as though the Witness's words were bleeding into flesh itself.
The dream voice hissed one final line, curling through both worlds at once:
"Velmora coroneth silthuun… drael velsha uthirae…"
("When silence wears the crown, even love shall kneel in hunger.")
---
Damon's roar split the sanctuary walls, stone trembling like brittle bone. His voice was not merely sound—it was oath and agony, wolf and man breaking together.
"No!" His throat tore with the word. "You don't take her from me!"
He crushed her shadow-veined hand against his chest, his pulse hammering against her fading warmth. The rune seared deeper into his flesh, fire carving through marrow until blood slicked his palm.
The shadow-breath spilling from Dahlia's lips coiled tighter, a leash dragging her deeper into silence. Damon bared his teeth and did the unthinkable.
He leaned close, lips grazing hers, and inhaled. His wolf blood surged, primal and reckless, and he tried to bite the shadow out—tear it away with the beast inside him.
The rune answered his fury. Light and shadow collided in his veins, searing a pattern older than his oath, older than even the gods.
"Veyrathuun draem… uthira velshaan… coroneth silrae…"
("The Old Father stirs… the silence feeds… the crown descends…")
For a heartbeat, Damon's sight shattered. He was no longer in the sanctuary.
The Hollowroot stretched before him, its roots bleeding silver fire. Above, the broken moon spilled rivers of light into endless dark. And there—chained in runes, crowned in shadow—stood the figure Dahlia faced in her dream. Its faceless helm turned, and Damon felt its gaze burn into his bones.
"Uthmir ven drael, Althuron veyraeth…"
("Wolf who defies the void, your blood binds the crown…")
Damon staggered in both worlds at once, caught between breath and dream, his palm burning as though the crown itself pressed into his hand. He clutched Dahlia tighter, refusing to let go, even as the shadow-thread coiled around his throat like a noose.
---
Dahlia's body jolted against him, as though dragged back from drowning. Her lips parted, and breath tore from her chest—yet it wasn't her breath at all.
Her eyes snapped open.
No violet glow. No mortal softness.
They were voided black mirrors, reflecting only the weight of a crown forged in silence. Damon froze, his wolf spirit howling against the sight, but his arms refused to release her.
Her voice came, layered and fractured, as though she spoke with two throats at once—hers and another older, vaster, hollow as eternity.
"Xyrrath velmorae… Veyrathuun draem…"
("The gate trembles… The Old Father stirs…")
Her gaze fixed on him—yet not him. Through her, something greater stared back.
"He walks…" she whispered. The sound shattered like glass, echoing inside Damon's bones.
The rune on his palm screamed in fire. Flesh charred and split, blood mingled with ash until the mark sank deeper, searing itself into permanence. He smelled iron and smoke, as though the gods themselves had branded him.
"Uthmirae coroneth silrae… draem uthira velshaan…"
("The crown of silence seeks… the silence feeds…")
Dahlia's hand trembled against his cheek. For a moment, her lips trembled, almost her voice breaking through—then the black mirror eyes deepened, swallowing her, swallowing him.
The last whisper cut the chamber colder than death itself:
"Veyrathuun vorenrrhul… coroneth ulthera…"
("The Devourer rises… the crown has chosen…")
Damon's heart thundered in revolt. His love held her, but the truth rang like a blade.
The Shadow Crown had found its vessel—
and no vow of love could unmake its hunger.
---