The night air was cold, sharper than usual. A mist hugged the edges of the northern trade route where a small caravan of merchants was moving toward Lycanthria's border gates. The moon hung low, casting a pale glow on their wooden carts filled with barrels of spices, fabrics, and polished steel blades.
Half a dozen guards rode beside the wagons with torches in hand. The forest surrounding them was tranquil. There were no crickets, no rustling leaves, just the sound of hooves and wheels rolling against gravel.
One of the men, the youngest of the group, shivered and looked around nervously. "Feels strange tonight," he muttered.
"Keep your eyes ahead," the lead guard said. "We'll reach the gates before dawn."
But they never would.
From the shadows, movement flickered, too fast for human eyes. The horses neighed and reared as the scent of decay hit the air. Three figures stepped out from the darkness. Their bodies are warped as if the shifting process was interrupted mid-way. Elongated limbs covered in patchy, matted fur. Their hands are clawed, dripping with a faint black substance that hissed when it touched the ground, too long to be human, too stubby to be wolf. Their faces are distorted, snouts jutting but never fully formed, with jagged, broken teeth. Their eyes were glowing red. They were wanderers.
The merchants barely had time to scream when they descended. One of the Wanderers lunged, snapping a guard's neck clean in half before tearing into another's chest. The second creature overturned a wagon with a single swipe, scattering goods everywhere, crushing one man beneath the wheels. The third went for the horses, slashing their bellies open to cause pain and agony.
It was over in minutes.
The night returned to silence, save for the crackle of flames and the gurgle of blood. One Wanderer, taller than the others, turned toward the direction of Lycanthria's glowing towers in the far distance.
"Ir vrenn thar soonen," he rasped in an ancient tongue.
She will awake soon.
"Then we hunt," another replied.
As the caravan burned behind them, they disappeared into the forest, leaving nothing but ash and terror.
***********************
The palace council chamber smelled of smoke and incense, as it always did after a long night of torch-lit discussions. Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, glinting off the polished marble floor.
King Alaric sat at the head of the long table, his expression calm but weary. Aveloria sat beside him, wearing a plain black gown instead of her usual royal attire. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, but her gaze was fixed on the door as the Royal Guard Captain entered the hall.
"Your Majesty," the captain bowed, his armor scratched and dusty from travel. "We've received a report from the border patrol near the Northern Route."
"Speak," the king commanded.
The captain cleared his throat. "A merchant caravan was found destroyed at dawn. No survivors. The bodies—" he paused, struggling to find the right words, "—were torn apart. Whatever did it wasn't human."
Murmurs rose across the chamber. The council of elders, fifteen old wolves who served as the kingdom's advisors, leaned closer, exchanging skeptical looks.
"Rogues?" one of them asked.
"Most likely," another answered before the captain could speak. "Starved ones. The roads have been unsafe lately."
Aveloria looked up sharply. "Rogues don't kill this cruelly," she said. "They're more organized. They don't attack without prior notice. This…sounds deliberate."
The council fell silent for a moment. Elder Darius, a heavyset man with graying hair, narrowed his eyes at her. "You're speaking like you've seen this before, Heiress."
Her heart gave a slight jolt. I have.
"I've studied the old reports," she said, steadying her tone. "From the border attacks fifty years ago. The same pattern. Quick strikes, no survivors, entire caravans vanished overnight."
"The Wanderer attacks," murmured another elder, though his voice held disbelief. "But those are myths, Your Highness. None have been seen since the last purge."
Aveloria clenched her jaw. "Then how do you explain their precision? The scent of ash, the burned remains? Even rogues don't burn bodies. Wanderers do, sometimes, to erase traces."
"Enough," her father said, raising a hand. His tone was calm, but his eyes were firm. "We will not jump to conclusions. The Wanderers have been gone for decades. If this is a rogue issue, we'll strengthen the patrols."
"But Father—"
"Aveloria." His voice softened, but the warning was clear. "We will investigate this properly. For now, let the council handle it."
She sat back, biting back the words she wanted to say. The council moved on to discussions about trade, security, and Lunareth's upcoming diplomatic visit. Aveloria tuned it all out. Her mind was spinning.
The scene of the caravan burned behind her eyelids, bodies twisted, blood staining the dirt. She remembered how the Wanderers had killed her once before. The way their claws tore through her skin, how the cold moon had been the last thing she saw.
This wasn't a random attack. It was a message.
When the meeting ended, the elders bowed and left one by one. Aveloria stayed seated until the chamber was nearly empty. Her father spoke quietly with Elder Darius when she rose to her feet.
"I'll take my leave, Father," she said quietly.
He nodded without looking at her. "Get some rest, my dear. You've looked troubled since the festival."
Rest. That word felt meaningless.
Outside the Chamber, the corridor was long and silent, filled with portraits of royal lineage, past kings and queens whose gazes seemed to follow her as she walked. She caught her reflection in the polished armor of a passing guard. Her face looked pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were deeper than before.
"Heiress?"
She turned. Galen stood at the end of the hall, leaning casually against the stone pillar. His sandy hair wasn't messy, and his brown eyes were concerned.
"I heard about the meeting," he said as he approached her. "Did they believe you?"
She shook her head. "No. They think it's rogues."
He sighed. "Typical. The council never listens until blood spills too close to the palace walls."
"I can't just sit and wait," she said, frustration leaking into her voice. "If they're really back, the past is repeating itself. The same pattern, the same blindness."
"What do you mean by the past?" He arched his brows. "You think they'll come for you?"
Aveloria looked away. "They always did."
There was a long pause before she spoke again. "Galen, I want to train."
He blinked, surprised. "Train? You already know basic defense."
"Not enough. I need to learn to fight. Not just to protect myself but to protect this kingdom when no one else will."
He studied her for a moment, his expression softening. "You've changed, Aveloria. You used to hate combat drills."
"I used to believe others would protect me." Her tone was quiet but heavy. "Now I know better."
Galen gave a slight nod. "Then I'll help you. We'll start at the old courtyard behind the barracks. It's quiet there and no one will interrupt."
"Thank you," she said. For a moment, her voice cracked with something that sounded like relief.
He smiled. "You don't have to thank me. Just promise me you'll sleep at least once before you swing a sword."
She managed a small, tired laugh. "I'll try."
**********************
Aveloria couldn't sleep. The palace was quiet except for the occasional howls from the forest outside the walls. She sat by the window in her nightgown, her thoughts tangled.
Three mates. Gossip was spreading through the palace like wildfire. The elders are ignoring the signs. The Wanderers are returning. Every path in her life spiraled toward something she didn't yet understand.
Her wolf stirred beneath her skin, restless. The same unfinished shift that had haunted her since the festival made her body tremble. She could feel her bones straining, her vision sharpening, but it never completed. Something was holding her back. Each time she looked at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes flickered golden briefly before returning to normal.
There was a knock at her door.
"Come in," she said.
Galen entered quietly, carrying a lantern. "Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, setting it on the table.
She shook her head. "My mind won't stop."
He walked closer. "The guards say they're increasing the watch near the borders. But between us, I think something's brewing. The scouts are nervous. And those rogues they're blaming? They haven't found a single trail."
"Because it wasn't rogues," she said.
"I know," he admitted. "But if we say that out loud, they'll call us paranoid."
Aveloria looked out the window toward the horizon. "Then we'll find proof. The Wanderers hide in the shadows; they always have. But I'll drag them into the light."
Galen studied her face, the quiet determination etched into every line. "You really mean it, don't you?"
"I do."
"Then I'll stand with you," he said. "Whatever comes."
Her gaze softened. For the first time that day, the tension in her chest loosened.
"Tomorrow," she said, "we start training."
He nodded. "Then tomorrow it is. Sleep well, Aveloria."
As he left, Aveloria returned to the window, staring at the moon. It hung heavy and bright, the same moon that had witnessed her death once before. But this time, she wasn't the same helpless heiress waiting for rescue.
This time, she would fight. And if the Wanderers were truly back, they would find that the heiress they killed had been reborn not as a victim, but as their reckoning.