"One death can tear down a thousand tomorrows."

~

The first scream split the night like a knife.

For a moment, no one moved.

The bonfire crackled on, golden sparks rising into the cold dark sky. Laughter and low conversation faltered into uneasy silence. Every ear strained toward the tree line where the sound had come from.

High, thin.

...and wrong.

Elara’s stomach dropped. Instinct screamed at her — Run. Hide. But she stood frozen, her boots rooted to the earth.

Another scream — this one a deeper, raw, gurgling sound — tore through the clearing.

Then the woods exploded.

Figures burst from the shadows, their forms barely more than blurs beneath the moonlight — dark wolves, not of their pack, snarling, their teeth bared and wet with blood. Steel flashed in human hands — blades meant for killing. A few of them shifted to their wolves.

Weapons, Howls and Screams replaced the peace.

The Gathering shattered into chaos.

Beta Draven shoved Elara behind him in one swift motion, his sword flashing free. “Stay close!” he growled, already scanning the chaos for threats.

But Elara’s eyes were locked — helplessly, hopelessly — on Lucian.

He had drawn a weapon too, a long, wicked hunting dagger gleaming silver under the moon. Around him, warriors and wolves rallied, forming a loose defensive ring, allowing enough space for Lucian, incase he has to shift. His expression was a mask of focus — no fear, no hesitation. Only grim determination.

For a heartbeat, Elara believed he might survive this.

And then she saw the shadow moving behind him — fast, silent, dagger raised high.

“No!” she screamed, the word ripping itself from her chest.

Lucian turned — too slow, too late —

The blade found home.

Lucian staggered. His shirt blossomed red at the side, a stain too dark, too wide. His dagger clattered to the ground at his feet.

The world seemed to slow, every heartbeat stretching into forever.

Elara didn’t think. She just ran.

Shouldering past fighting bodies, ducking under swinging blades, she threw herself towards him. The distance between them felt endless. Every step was agony.

By the time she reached him, Lucian was on his hands and knees, blood soaking the grass beneath him. His body shuddered, struggling against the pull of death.

“Lucian!” Elara gasped, falling to her knees beside him. She gathered him into her arms, his blood seeping into her clothes.

Hot and horrifyingly real.

He blinked up at her, silver eyes dulling by the second.

“Elara…” he gasped.

Her hands fluttered uselessly over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. It was useless. She knew it.

It was the kind of wound no healer could mend.

“Stay with me." she begged, pressing her forehead to his. "Please. Stay."

Lucian's lips moved — maybe to say her name again, maybe something else — but no sound came out. His breath shuddered.

Once.

Twice.

...then stilled.

And Elara screamed, a sound that broke something inside the earth itself.

A heart-shattering, gut-wrenching scream.

The world blurred around her.

The bloodied clearing twisted, folding in on itself like smoke in gale.

The howls, the screams, the fire — all swallowed whole into a blinding white light.

Elara’s body felt like it was being teared apart, her soul dragged backward through something vast and endless.

When the light faded, she was standing in the woods again —

Same satchel in her hand.

Same full moon climbing the sky.

Same hum of gathering wolves just ahead.

Except, Lucian was still alive.

Standing near the fire, laughing at something one of the warriors said.

Untouched.

Unharmed.

Breathing.

Elara stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own feet.

Her heart raced so violently she thought it might crack her ribs.

The world spun around her —

because she knew exactly what had happened.

She had gone back.

Back before he died.

Back before the massacre.

But why?

And more importantly — for how long?