The Wolf’s Cry

The fire crackled in the center of the werewolf war circle, casting wild, leaping shadows across hard faces and scarred stone. The night was heavy with tension—the kind that settled in the bones and refused to let go.

Ronan stood at the edge of the gathering, arms folded, golden eyes reflecting the blaze. Around him, the pack murmured in agitation. They'd caught wind of something—movement at the border, whispers of trespass, the scent of vampires drifting too close to sacred ground.

Elder Garruk slammed his fist on the war table. "First the scent. Now our sentries report signs of cloaked movement near the eastern ridge. You know what this means."

"They're testing us," snarled one of the younger scouts.

"No," Garruk growled. "They're preparing for something. A vampire stepping foot on our land is no small thing. It's an act of war."

All eyes shifted to Ronan.

He said nothing at first. The fire hissed between them like a warning. His jaw was clenched, heart pounding. He knew who they were talking about—not an army, not a threat.

Selene.

He could still feel the memory of her fingers brushing his. The way her eyes softened when she looked at him like she saw past the monster. She shouldn't be here. Not again.

Beside him, Riven stepped forward. "Before we leap to conclusions, maybe we should ask why they're here. If it's only one or two moving through the trees—"

"You think it's a coincidence?" Garruk cut in. "You think they wander this close for fun? We've been quiet for years. They want to stir the ashes."

"No one's stirred anything," Ronan said finally, his voice low but steady. "We don't know what they're doing, or why. And until we do, I won't have us spilling blood just to satisfy old ghosts."

Garruk's eyes narrowed. "You sound uncertain, Alpha."

"I'm careful," Ronan replied. "A true Alpha doesn't start a war over shadows."

A tense silence followed.

Riven leaned in close as the murmuring resumed. "You're playing a dangerous game, Ronan."

Ronan didn't look at him. "I didn't ask to feel what I feel."

"And yet you do." Riven's voice was hushed. "You think she's different. You think she's worth the risk."

"She is."

"That's not how the council sees it. Or the pack."

Ronan finally turned to face him. "Then I'll convince them. Somehow."

Riven didn't reply. His silence said more than any words could.

Suddenly, a sharp howl pierced the night air. Another followed. Then came the rush of footsteps—urgent, fast.

A young wolf burst into the circle, panting. "Alpha—we've seen them again. East ridge. Three cloaked figures. Close to the old stone line."

A collective growl rolled through the camp like thunder. The wolves were ready. Too ready.

Ronan straightened. "Weapons ready. Defensive positions only. No attack unless I say."

Garruk scoffed. "And when they spill our blood first?"

"Then we answer."

As the pack scattered to prepare, Ronan turned to Riven once more. "You don't have to trust her," he said. "Just trust me."

Riven's eyes narrowed, conflicted. "I trust you, Ronan. But I don't know if I trust what she's already set in motion."

Then he was gone, disappearing into the trees with the others.

Ronan stood alone for a moment longer, staring into the fire as the flames danced like omens. He knew what was coming. The choice was no longer between love and duty.

It was between peace and war.

And the line between them was wearing Selene's face.

Selene sat in the high tower chamber, far from the noise of court politics, her fingers resting against the cool stone of the windowsill. The stars were sharp tonight—like watching the heavens bleed silver—and yet she found no comfort in their stillness.

Something had shifted. She felt it in her chest, like a pulse beneath her ribs, unspoken and urgent.

Dalia entered quietly, her boots soft against the marble floor. Her expression was tight, her usual calm threaded with worry.

"You heard?" Dalia asked.

Selene turned slowly. "What happened?"

"There's been movement on the werewolf border. Our sentries say the wolves are mobilizing." Dalia paused. "Three of our scouts crossed too far. They've drawn attention." Selene's heart sank. "No. They weren't supposed to move without my word."

"They didn't wait." Dalia stepped closer. "Word from the Nightwing is that Lucien was behind it. A probe, not an attack—but the wolves won't see it that way."

Selene paced the room, her cloak fluttering behind her like a shadow. Her mind raced—images of Ronan standing alone against his pack, of Riven's narrowed eyes, of Garruk's looming hatred.

"This could ignite everything," she whispered. "We were so close to something—something new."

Dalia's voice softened. "And maybe we still are. But you need to tell me—are you ready for what comes next, Selene? Because if war erupts, the court will demand blood. And your connection to Ronan won't be a secret much longer."

Selene stopped, her shoulders tense. "Simon's already watching me. Lucien's trying to protect me in his own way, but he doesn't understand what this truly means. If the wolves strike back, if they find out I'm tied to it—"

"They'll use it against you," Dalia said grimly. "And him."

For a long moment, silence sat between them, thick as fog. Then Selene looked out the window again—toward the distant woods that bordered their lands, where the trees whispered ancient truths, and where she had first met Ronan beneath a harvest moon.

"I need to warn him," she said at last.

Dalia blinked. "You'd risk being seen again? The council—"

"They already suspect me." Selene's voice was steel now. "But if this spirals into war, I won't let it happen without trying to stop it. Not when there's still a chance to save what we've begun."

Dalia nodded slowly, resolve hardening in her eyes. "Then I'll cover for you. But Selene, be careful. You're walking on the knife's edge now."

Selene pulled her hood over her head and slipped into the shadows, her heart thundering with dread and purpose.

Let them call it treason, she thought. If love is betrayal, then I'll choose betrayal over blind loyalty.

And with that, she vanished into the night—racing against time, against politics, and against the storm that now threatened to swallow them all.