Intro/prologue

For centuries, two great kingdoms ruled the land. Vaeloria, the Moonborn Realm, and Draganthar, the Fireborn Empire. Their power shaped the world, but their hatred ran deep, like a wound that never healed.

No one remembers how the war began. Some say the dragons struck first, sweeping down from the Emberpeak Spires, burning the forests of Nyxholm. Others claim it was the wolves, slipping into the dark, slaying a Drakenlord king in his own bed. What started as a battle became a curse. A war with no end. A hatred so old it lived in their bones.

The Drakarion of Draganthar called themselves gods, born from fire and sky. Their rulers, the Drakenlords, were the most feared of all. They shifted into great dragons, their scales harder than steel, their breath turning cities into ash. From their fortress in the sky, Vyrmora, they ruled with fire and terror. Their armies, the Vyrmguard and Ashenborn, were half-dragon warriors, some with wings, others built like beasts, made for battle. They took what they wanted. Burned what they could not.

There were old whispers about the Emberforged Beasts…creatures born from forbidden bloodlines, dragons twisted with the blood of other beings, but no one had ever seen one. To most, they were just stories, meant to keep children afraid of what lurked past their borders.

The Vaelthorne of Vaeloria were not like the dragons. They did not rule from high places. They ruled from the ground, the forests, the hills, the shadows touched by moonlight. Their rulers, the Aetherborn Alphas, were rare, able to shift into more than one beast…wolf, lion, shadow. Their warriors, the Lunaris Sentinels, stood like war giants, covered in fur like armor. The Nocturn Fangs, their true werewolves, had silvered claws made to rip through dragon flesh. Vaeloria fought to protect their land, their families, their home.

But even their kind knew corruption. The Eclipsed Ones were cursed wolves, those who gave in to greed, anger, or power, turning into void beasts. They were cast out, left to roam the deadlands like ghosts with claws.

For generations, fire met fang.

Dragantharian flames burned Vaelorian lands.

Vaelorian blades took dragon lives in the dark. No mercy. No peace.

Serene Vaelthorne was born into this war. The only heir to the Aetherborn Alphas, the last blood of a dying line. She watched her parents fall to dragon fire. She heard their screams in her sleep. She was raised not to cry, but to fight. To rule. And to hate.

But before she became queen, she gave her heart to Veydris, a Lunaris Sentinel, a Lycan warrior feared even by his own kind. He could shift into a war wolf-form, a beast walking upright, covered in dark fur like armor. He was her protector, her sword, and for a short time, her love. But love could not survive in a world like theirs. Then came the Ruin of the Silver Moon.

The last Drakarion king led his army deep into Vaeloria. He burned their sacred groves, slaughtered their clans. The wolves fought with everything they had, but the dragons came like a storm, wave after wave. When the battle was over, the trees were ash, the ground was red, and the moon above bled like an open wound.

The war did not end that night, but something changed. The fear was new. It clung to both sides like smoke. Because something worse was coming.

The first rumors came from hunters near the northern borders. Whispers of a prophecy that will either end the war fully or worsen it. Whispers of shadows moving where there was no light. A feeling in the air that made their skin crawl. Some did not return. Those who did were not the same.

But the wolves and dragons had fought for so long, they could not see it, this thing waiting in the dark. Their hatred made them blind. Made them weak. And weakness in their world meant death. A desperate pact was made.

The Moonfire Pact. A prophecy carved in a moving shadow of blood.

Two heirs, born under two skies. One cradled by the moon. One raised by fire. Bound by fate. Destined for war. A marriage. A blood oath. A wolf would be bound to a dragon, her greatest enemy.

But it was not Queen Serene who carried the future. It was her unborn child, but already marked by fate. A child of moon and fire, the one written in the prophecy. A union of fire and moonlight. Of vengeance and ruin. But magic does not forget. And it never forgives. A bond between a dragon and a wolf was not natural. It was against the order of their world. The moment their bloodlines joined, something would change. Something no one could control.

Peace might come or the world might burn.

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Prologue

Vyrmora, Capital of Draganthar (The Fireborn Empire Dragon Clan)

"Push, my queen…push!"

The cry rang through the chamber, nearly swallowed by the rumble of the volcano outside. Lava rivers bled down the Emberpeak Spires, their glow bleeding through the cracks in the stone walls of Vyrmora's fortress. The scent of sulfur choked the air, mixing with the sweat and blood that drenched the queen's body.

Lyanna Drakarion, consort to the Ashen Tyrant King Fenrirkir Drakarion, clawed at the furs, her as another contraction tore through her body. Her back arched in agony. Her dragon-born blood, fierce and burning, twisted inside her, but this pain was different. This pain was unnatural. Wrong.

The midwives whispered prayers to the fire gods, their faces pale with fear. No heir to a Drakenlord had ever brought such torment. Dragon princes were born in strength, their cries often laced with smoke. But this… this was a battle within her womb.

"He fights me," Lyanna gasped, her voice raw, teeth gritted against the torment. "He… he will not yield."

Her nails dug into stone, splintering the surface.

The high shaman, draped in robes black as scorched earth, bowed low, his forehead pressing to the volcanic rock. His voice was reverent but trembling.

"The child bends the flames… even now. He commands them. The prophecy… it stirs in him."

Lyanna's heart pounded. The prophecy. She had heard it whispered in dark halls, spoken in fear by the elders. A son born from fire and fury. A king who would either save Draganthar or destroy it.

Fenrirkir had believed it. He had made her carry this child despite the risks. He had seen their future painted in fire and blood. He had died believing it.

A year had passed since his body was burned atop the Pyre of Kings, yet his shadow still lingered over her. His will… his war… his curse.

Another scream tore from Lyanna as her body seized.

"Now, my queen!" the midwife shouted.

With a final, primal roar, she gave everything, her pain, her strength, her grief and the child was ripped into the world.

The chamber fell deathly still. The flames flickered. Then, they bent…every fire in the room tilted toward the infant, as though bowing before a master. The newborn did not cry. His small chest rose with his first breath, then he exhaled, a stream of golden fire, curling through the air.

Gasps echoed.

The midwives stumbled back, clutching their robes. The shaman's hands trembled as he lifted the boy into his arms, eyes wide with awe and dread. The child's hair was black like obsidian, streaked with threads of molten red. And his eyes… they burned with gold, fierce and knowing, like a king who had lived a thousand lives.

"He is born," the shaman whispered. His voice cracked. "The heir of Draganthar… the harbinger of war."

Lyanna's chest heaved as she reached out, her fingers brushing against her son's cheek. Heat radiated from him, but she did not pull away. Her heart, though heavy with fear, surged with love.

"Vaeren," she breathed. "His name is Vaeren."

The boy looked at her, his golden eyes unblinking. For a brief moment, the fire softened.

And Lyanna knew…the storm was only beginning.

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Nyxholm, Capital of Vaeloria (The Moonborn Realm)

Four years later

"The child is coming!"

The midwife's cry shattered the stillness. A cold wind howled through the palace, slipping through the stone halls like a phantom. Outside, the moon hung heavy, casting silver over the forested peaks of the Ebonridge Highlands. Wolves howled in the distance—mournful, expectant.

Inside the queen's chamber, the air was thick with blood, sweat, and magic. It was unexpected that the Queen carried the child for thirteen months.

Queen Serene Vaelthorne lay on the bed, her skin damp, her face pale but fierce. She clutched the hand of her husband, King Veydris…her warrior, her love. His eyes, usually hard as steel, were glassy now, his jaw tight as he watched his queen suffer.

Another wave of agony tore through her, and she cried out, her back arching.

"I can't—" Her voice cracked. "It's too soon… she's not ready…"

Veydris knelt beside her, pressing his forehead to her hand, his shoulders shaking.

"You're strong, Serene. You always have been. You'll bring it into this world. I know you will."

The high priestess, her robes adorned with symbols of the moon, traced ancient runes across Serene's belly with trembling fingers. The markings glowed faintly…silver against flesh.

"She carries the last of the Aetherborn line," the priestess whispered. "The moon has claimed this child. The prophecy lives in her."

Serene's vision blurred with tears, but her mind was clear. Her people. It's a girl…Her daughter. Her bloodline, hanging by a thread.

Another scream tore from her chest. This time, The pain was like nothing she had ever known. It clawed through her body, tearing, breaking, taking more than she had to give. She knew, even as she pushed, that this would be the end.

"Please my Queen, you're almost there…I…I can see the opening. Pls one more!"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the wail of a newborn filled the chamber. The priestess lifted the child. Her hair was silver, with strands of night woven through. Her skin glowed faintly, kissed by the moonlight itself. And when her eyes opened, those eyeobsidian, luminous amber eyes, and a crescent-shaped rune on her collarbone, every soul in the room felt the power shift.

"She is born," the priestess whispered. "The heir of Vaeloria. The last Aetherborn Alpha."

Serene's heart twisted with both love and sorrow. She held out her arms, and when the baby was placed on her chest, the glow around the infant pulsed…gentle, warm, like the light of a full moon.

Serene brushed her lips against the child's head, tears slipping down her face.

"She looks like my mother," she whispered, voice trembling. "Xyra… her name is Xyra."

The room was silent, except for the baby's soft breaths. Serene's hand found Veydris's cheek, her fingers brushing his tears. He was crying, openly now, his chest heaving.

"You must promise me," she whispered, her voice growing faint. "Train her. Make her strong. She is… all we have. She carries the prophecy now. The bloodline… our pact…"

Veydris nodded, clutching her hand. "I swear it… in my life."

Serene smiled, a weak, broken smile. Then her breath stilled. Her hand slipped from his cheek. And the light in her eyes went out.

Veydris's cry shook the walls. The midwives and priestess lowered their heads in grief, their tears joining his. The howling outside grew louder. Wolves across Vaeloria lifted their voices, mourning their queen. The moon above seemed dimmer. But in the arms of her father, Xyra, the last Aetherborn, glowed softly, like hope in the dark.

•A Prophecy Written in Blood•

In the depths of the ancient world, where the veil between realms was thin, the Seers of the Forgotten Temple gathered. Cloaked figures stood in a circle, their voices weaving a chant lost to time. The pool before them, black as the void, rippled as visions took shape.

Two infants, born beneath opposing skies, one cradled by the moon, the other by fire. The twin heirs of power, bound by fate, destined for war.

One would rise as a conqueror. The other, a queen of shadows. But only one would survive. The pool churned violently, flashes of the future colliding in a storm of visions. A battlefield drenched in blood. A kiss that burned like a curse. A throne carved from bone and fire. And in the end…Darkness.

One Seer gasped, her voice shaking. "The prophecy is set."

Another, eyes wide with fear, whispered, "The world will burn."

And far away, in two opposing kingdoms, two newborns let out their first cries, their destinies already written in the stars.