"The end was never the end. It was only the beginning of the fall."

~

The woods were breathing.

Each leaf trembled with the slow pulse of the earth beneath it, and somewhere deeper in the forest, the wolves of the Denholm Pack were stirring, restless in their human skins. The full moon hung low on the horizon, silver and swollen, casting pale fingers of light that reached between the twisted branches.

Elara Draven tightened her grip on the leather strap of her satchel, her fingertips whitening. She had grown up in these woods. She knew every path, every trail. And yet tonight, the forest felt... wrong.

The air was still.

The shadows deep.

The silence, too sharp.

Ahead, the clearing glowed with firelight. Lanterns swung from iron hooks hammered into the trees, casting golden pools across the grass. Wolves and humans alike mingled — warriors laughing low, elders exchanging hushed words, children scattered inbetween with wide, excited eyes. The Full Moon Gathering was a tradition older than memory, a celebration of unity and strength.

But Elara’s steps faltered on the edge of the clearing.

She saw him immediately.

Lucian Velden stood near the largest bonfire, a glass of dark wine cupped loosely in one hand. He was dressed simply — dark jeans, worn boots, a black shirt that clung to his strong frame as if painted on by the night itself. His dark hair was messy, as if he'd raked his hands through it in frustration.

And his eyes — god, his eyes — caught the firelight and turned to molten silver.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest. Not just because of how he looked, but because something in her soul — something primal and ancient — screamed in recognition.

Her wolf, Sylara growled.

Mine.

The word brushed the inside of her mind like a whispered prayer which she had no right to speak of.

Lucian's gaze drifted lazily across the crowd and then — for a heartbeat that felt like eternity — landed on her. His expression changed, just slightly, as if a thread inside him pulled.

Their eyes locked.

For one impossible second, the world fell blur — the sounds, the firelight, even the cold breath of the coming night.

Just the two of them.

And then, as quickly as it came, the moment shattered. Lucian’s face shifted into polite neutrality, and he inclined his head respectfully.

Distant.

Formal.

...As expected.

After all, he was promised to another.

Maris Bardulf, the daughter of the Black Hollow Clan.

An alliance made in blood, tradition, and survival.

Elara forced her legs to move towards the crowd. Her father, Beta Draven, appeared at her side, offering her a tight smile.

"You’re late." he murmured, adjusting the silver pin at his cloak’s shoulder — the mark of his station.

"Sorry." She whispered. Her throat felt as dry as ash.

He squeezed her shoulder briefly, a rare gesture of comfort. "Tonight is important. Stay close. We don’t know who still stands with us."

The words struck her harder than they should have.

Why would he say that?

The pack was strong. Whole. Loyal.

Wasn’t it?

Above them, the moon climbed higher, heavy and expectant.

Somewhere deep inside, a voice Elara didn’t yet understand whispered:

This is the night everything breaks.

This is the night you lose him.

And the first of many deaths will begin.

Again...