The dawn after war carried no warmth. Smoke still rose from the ruins, the scent of blood clung to the air, and the fortress walls groaned with the weight of ghosts. The pack moved like shadows through the wreckage, tending to the wounded, burying their dead. Victory tasted hollow, as if ash had been pressed into every mouth.
Dominic stood at the heart of it all, wounded yet unyielding. His presence alone kept despair from crushing what remained of his people. By his side, Seraphina sang—not the haunting storm she had unleashed the night before, but soft, fragile melodies. Her voice soothed the injured, eased nightmares, and gave weary hearts the will to rise again.
But her song carried farther than the ruins. It drifted beyond the forest, beyond the mountains, carried on winds no wolf could sense. And it found ears that had long hunted whispers of such power.
---
Far to the south, in a cathedral of white stone, the Order of Saint Lucien gathered. They were not kings or wolves or witches, but men and women cloaked in holy vows, wielding faith as their blade. For centuries, they had spoken of a prophecy: A voice born of sea and flame shall rise, unmaking the beasts and bending nations to their knees.
When Seraphina's song split the night in Dominic's fortress, the bells of the cathedral tolled on their own. The high priests trembled, for the prophecy had awakened.
"She must be contained," said Cardinal Veynar, his voice like iron striking stone. "This witch's voice is no gift—it is a scourge."
Others murmured uneasily. Some spoke of salvation, of miracles, of a divine weapon against darkness. But the order was united in one thing: Seraphina could not be ignored.
---
Back in the fortress, Dominic felt the shift in the wind before the riders arrived. His wolf prowled within, uneasy, restless. He stood on the scorched battlements, Seraphina beside him, when the banners of the church crested the horizon—white cloths painted with crimson suns.
"They come quickly," Seraphina whispered, her hand brushing his arm.
"They come hungry," Dominic replied, his jaw set. He had seen that hunger before—the hunger of men who claimed righteousness while sharpening their blades for conquest.
The riders entered the courtyard with holy pomp, their silver armor gleaming, their eyes sharp with judgment. At their head rode Inquisitor Maeron, a man of cold beauty, his golden hair tied back, his lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. He dismounted with a grace more dangerous than any wolf's snarl.
"My lord Alpha," he said, bowing with exaggerated courtesy. "We come not as conquerors, but as servants of the divine. Word has spread of the battle that shook these lands. Of shadows unleashed. Of a voice that shattered stone."
His gaze slid to Seraphina, lingering with unsettling reverence. "The voice of prophecy."
Seraphina's chest tightened. "I am no prophecy. I am flesh and blood. I am no danger to you."
"Oh, but you are both," Maeron said smoothly, circling her as if she were prey. "The scriptures spoke of you. A siren of flame. A temptress of ruin. Your song can unmake legions—or sanctify nations. The question is… who will you serve?"
Dominic stepped forward, a growl rumbling in his throat. "She serves no one but herself and this pack."
Maeron's smile sharpened. "Ah. The beast speaks for his mistress. How quaint. But you misunderstand me, Alpha. We do not ask. We claim. She belongs to the Church now."
The courtyard tensed. Wolves bristled, hands tightening on blades. The inquisitors remained calm, their hands resting on silver-forged weapons blessed in holy rites, weapons designed to pierce werewolf flesh like butter.
Seraphina's heart raced. She saw the trap—Maeron had not come to parley. He had come to provoke, to draw blood, to justify chains.
And yet, she also saw something deeper in his eyes: not hatred, but hunger. Not for her death—for her power.
---
That night, the council gathered in secret. Wolves snarled for blood, demanding the inquisitors be driven out. Others warned of doom, of holy armies descending if one priest's blood were spilled.
"They will not stop," Dominic growled, pacing the chamber. "If we give them Seraphina, they will bleed her until nothing remains. If we resist, they will call us heretics and march a crusade into our lands. There is no middle ground."
Seraphina spoke softly, her voice steady though her hands trembled. "Then I must leave."
The chamber erupted in protest, but she raised her hand, silencing even Dominic. "Listen to me. If I stay, they will burn this pack to ashes to have me. If I go, I can at least choose the terms. Perhaps I can buy time."
"No," Dominic said, his voice rough with fury. "I will not let them take you."
She turned to him, her gaze unflinching. "You nearly died yesterday. This pack nearly died. If the church brings its armies, they will finish what Lyanna began. I will not let my presence destroy everything you've fought to protect."
He grabbed her hand, gripping it hard as if sheer will could hold her forever. "You are not a sacrifice, Seraphina. You are mine."
Her heart broke at the rawness in his voice. She leaned close, her forehead against his. "And because I am yours, I must do this. Trust me, Dominic. Trust that I will find a way back."
---
The next dawn, Seraphina stood before Maeron in the courtyard, the entire pack watching in silence. She wore no chains, no bindings—only her own dignity.
"I will go with you," she said, her voice clear, carrying to every ear. "Not as a prisoner, but as an emissary. If your church wishes to know what I am, they will see me with their own eyes."
Maeron's smile was victory incarnate. "Wise, child. Very wise."
Dominic's wolves growled, their fury barely contained. But Seraphina raised her hand once more. "No blood will be spilled today. I go willingly."
Her eyes found Dominic's, holding him in one last, desperate tether. He stood like stone, his face carved of rage and anguish, but he did not move. Only his wolf's eyes burned through the mask.
Maeron offered his hand. She did not take it. She walked past him, mounted a horse, and rode south beneath the banners of the church.
Dominic's hand closed into a fist so tight his claws pierced his palm. As the gates shut behind her, his growl rolled like thunder through the courtyard.
The war was not over. It had only changed battlegrounds.
---
The cathedral of Saint Lucien was unlike anything Seraphina had ever seen. Its spires clawed at the heavens, its walls glowed with stained glass, and its air reeked of incense and hidden rot. Choirs sang hymns that echoed eerily against the stones, their voices chained to rhythm, stripped of freedom.
The priests received her with awe and fear. Some bowed, others made signs of warding. She was housed not in chains, but in a gilded chamber, her every step watched by guards.
Maeron visited often.
"You do not understand what you are," he told her one night, his voice velvet and venom. "Your voice is the key to dominion. Nations will kneel, kings will shatter, armies will fall—all with a whisper from your lips. With the church's guidance, you will not be feared. You will be worshipped."
"And if I refuse?" she asked, her voice low.
His smile was gentle, chilling. "Then we will strip the gift from your throat, string by string, until nothing remains but silence."
---
Back in the north, Dominic prepared.
Every day, he trained. Every night, he dreamed of Seraphina in chains. His wound had barely healed, yet his fury gave him strength. His wolves whispered warnings, but he did not hear them.
He was not a man waiting for fate. He was a beast sharpening his claws.
And when the church tried to claim his mate, they would learn what it meant to face the wrath of an Alpha whose love had been turned into war.