The Hunger's last words echo inside me—"The feast has begun"—a curse sinking deeper than blood. Dahlia's weight lies in my arms, her pulse fluttering weakly, dim as a dying ember. I clutch her tighter, but shadows creep across her skin, crawling like veins of ink where her blood kissed the edge of the abyss.
"No—" My voice cracks. I push my wolf's power into her, raw and reckless, forcing light into her fading body. For a moment, the glow steadies her chest, a shallow breath escaping her lips. But the scar flares hot, alive, rebelling against me.
Visions rip through my mind. A vast maw splitting open in the abyss. Runes branded into flesh older than the world. Chains rattling against a void where stars are devoured whole.
And beneath it, a voice coils around me like smoke:
"Ultherra shael draevor… coroneth shael veyrathuun… feed, bearer, feed."
("By oath of shadow… the crowned shall fall to the Devourer… feed, bearer, feed.")
The pain sears deeper. Every ounce of strength I pour into her is stolen back, siphoned by the scar, swallowed into the chained abyss.
I grit my teeth, fighting to keep my grip. But the truth sinks like a blade between my ribs: each time I resist the Hunger, it grows stronger. Every vow I spit in defiance only bleeds me further into its jaws.
The scar isn't just a wound. It's a bargain—one that takes more from me every time I try to protect her.
---
The scar writhes against my skin, hotter than fire, colder than void. From the chasm below, whispers climb the ruin like smoke, curling around us in a chorus that rattles the bones of the earth.
"Ultherra shael draevor… Coroneth shaelth veyra… come claim…"
("By oath of shadow… the Crown bleeds… come claim…")
The air thickens. Dust rains down. The ruin itself groans like it remembers the voice too well.
Dahlia stirs in my arms, her lips cracking as she fights for breath. When she speaks, it isn't only her voice. It's layered—hers, and something beyond, something that has no end.
"You—warden of chains… betrayer of flesh…" Her eyes, half-lidded, flicker with starlit black. "Ultherra shael, coroneth drael… your vow binds, your scar breaks."
Her body trembles, but her grip claws into my chest as if anchoring herself to me even as the abyss tries to pull her away.
The ruin shudders harder, stone splitting, the sound echoing like a scream. I know—it isn't the ruin that listens. It's the abyss itself, hungry for every word she speaks, eager to twist it.
My gut clenches as the scar pulses once more, and I realize the truth: Dahlia's prophecy isn't just foretelling. It's being bent, shaped, poisoned—woven into chains meant for me.
The scar is turning her visions against me, sealing a fate where I am not her shield, but the blade that betrays her.
---
The scar flares white-hot, veins crawling like molten iron beneath my skin. I try to hold Dahlia closer, but my right arm jerks against my will, moving as if pulled by unseen strings.
The glyphs blaze open. Shadows coil from the scar, thickening into a chain that unravels with a hiss. It lunges outward, black and jagged, aimed straight for Dahlia's heart.
"Shaelth coroneth draevor… vessel bleeds, bearer obeys…"
("The crown commands… the vessel bleeds, the bearer obeys…")
I roar, forcing my will against it, tearing back control—but the chain resists, fighting me like it has its own hunger. In a split breath I do the only thing I can: I wrench the arm across jagged stone, shredding my own flesh to stop it.
Blood spills. The chain snaps, dissolving back into smoke.
Inside me, my wolf thrashes—snarling, teeth gnashing, clawing at the cage of my ribs. "If you cannot master this, I will. Better I break loose than watch her die by your hand."
For the first time, the enemy isn't the Hunger below. It's the hand I carry, the scar that bleeds me, the chain that hungers for her.
Fear burns cold in my gut. Not fear of the abyss. Not fear of the Crown. For the first time—I fear myself.
---
I drag her trembling body against me, pressing my forehead to hers. My breath is ragged, torn between rage and fear, but my voice thunders out anyway, cutting through the ruin:
"By blood and vow, I will never be the key."
The ruins quake at the oath, dust raining from shattered stone. The abyss stirs in answer, a hiss rising from the depths like a chorus of serpents:
"Shael ultherra… coroneth draevor… you already are."
("Wolf-bearer… crown-binder… you already are.")
The words writhe through me like barbed hooks. My scar sears, moonlight pulsing and shadow bleeding in equal measure.
Dahlia's lashes flutter, her hand trembling as she clutches mine with what little strength remains. Her voice, soft as a dying ember, slips through her lips. "Then unmake the chain… before it unmakes you."
Her words strike like a blade through bone. The scar pulses again—harder, faster, a violent rhythm, burning with both moon and shadow until it feels like my arm might split apart. It is no longer a wound. No longer even a tether.
It is rising against me.
My vow did not silence it—it ignited rebellion. The scar is no longer mine to carry. It is becoming something else.
---