The First Arrow

[System Announcement]

New Faction Leader Established – Lyra Rain, Luna Ascendant of the Moonborn.

Global Reputation Increased.

And then, moonlight descended.

Not soft.

Not serene.

But bladed, a sword of holy luminance that fell from the sky as if cast by the hand of a celestial god.

It struck her, not gently, but like a judgment.

White-hot. Unrelenting.

Absolute.

Lyra's form trembled, then began to glow, lines of starlight webbing across her skin like cracks in a breaking vessel.

She gasped, spine arching, caught in a rapture that was both agony and ascension.

And then, she fractured.

Shards of human silhouette broke into brilliance, her body splitting into threads of light, limbs warping, shadow stretching.

Her shadow rose behind her, reshaped into something impossible, ancient.

And where Lyra Rain had stood, now stood a wolf.

But not any wolf.

A titan of silver flame.

Her fur shimmered like liquid moonlight, each strand alive with power.

Muscles rippled beneath her coat, graceful, immense, a force born not of beast but of legacy.

Her eyes, blazing, intelligent, eternal, locked onto the horizon like she could see through time itself.

She stood taller than any living wolf.

Taller than legend had dared whisper since the Queens of the First Moon.

A creature of lore and prophecy, now real.

The ground vibrated beneath her paws.

The sky held its breath.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, no one moved.

No one dared.

Then, from the farthest edge of the circle, a howl broke the silence.

Low.

Fierce.

Honoring.

Another followed.

Then another.

And then, dozens.

The Moonborn howled.

Not in mourning.

Not in fear.

But in allegiance.

The sound was a storm, a vow, a war song rising into the stars.

A new Luna had risen.

And a new era had begun.

Far across the territory, in the cold stone heart of the Obsidian Keep, a glass explosion ruptured the stillness.

A wine goblet shattered against the floor, crimson liquid streaking the pale tiles like a wound torn in marble.

The shards scattered at the feet of Kael, who stood rigid, breath ragged, fury dripping off him like venom.

His eyes, once regal, were wild now, fever-bright with disbelief and something darker.

"She thinks she's Luna now?" he roared,

voice cracking the silence like thunder splitting the spine of a mountain.

From the tall window draped in shadow-silk, Selena watched the horizon.

The moon cast a sharp white blade across her face.

She turned, slow and deliberate, her silver bangles chiming like distant bells in a storm.

Her gaze met his rage with cool detachment, her voice smooth, edged with danger.

"She doesn't think it, Kael," she said,

"She is."

"Power answers her now.

And the wolves? They're no longer whispering.

They're howling.

The Council is watching."

Kael's jaw clenched so tight his teeth groaned under the pressure.

He began to pace, a predator in a too-small cage.

His cloak whipped behind him, black with silver embroidery, now absurdly regal, now meaningless.

"An omega crowned Luna?

The Moonborn disgrace themselves.

Let's see how long she lasts… once her rogue bleeds out."

Selena's smile was razor-thin.

Cruel.

Quiet.

Knowing.

"Not anymore."

He stopped dead.

Shoulders shaking.

Breath heaving.

But the fury in him was starting to shift.

From fire… to something colder.

More surgical.

More dangerous.

"Then we break her," he whispered.

"Make her fall from that pretty highstone throne."

"We strike at what she cares about."

His voice sharpened to ice.

"She's still tethered to that rogue."

Selena turned fully now.

Her face a sculpture of war-ice, her eyes twin blades catching moonlight.

"Then let's rip the rogue apart."

The silence that followed was alive.

Heavy with the weight of violence yet to come.

Moments later, messengers sprinted into the night, cloaks flaring like wings of shadow.

Scouts deployed, faceless in their veils.

Their orders were precise.

Cold.

Surgical.

Final.

The war had not yet begun.

But the wolves were already moving.

Tracks were followed.

Ambush points marked.

A trap was laid, elegant in its cruelty, threaded into the landscape like venom in a wound.

And Ciran…

Ciran would never see it until it was far too late.

But in his haste, Kael had made a critical mistake, one not born of miscalculation, but of ego.

He still saw Lyra through an old lens:

A forgotten girl on the fringe of the circle.

The outsider.

The orphan.

The one scraping for scraps of approval from a throne that never wanted her.

But that Lyra was gone.

She wasn't flinching now.

She wasn't reacting.

She wasn't chasing power like some desperate ghost.

She was wielding it.

Silent. Controlled.

Lethal.

Every breath measured.

Every stillness deliberate.

And her silence?

Not submission.

But strategy.

Meanwhile, deep within the mist-heavy woodlands, Ciran moved like smoke.

He was a shadow in motion, quiet as snowfall, sharp as a drawn blade.

His boots disturbed nothing.

His breath was shallow, rhythmic.

His eyes scanned the undergrowth with predatory calm.

Moonlight filtered through the twisted canopy in thin, silver blades, slicing through the fog and catching on dew-slick leaves.

The faint glint of his curved dagger, moonsilver-forged, honed to a whisper, flickered as he shifted between trees.

He was tracking something.

Wrong.

A corrupted wolf-spirit, feral, desecrated.

Its trail was a scar through the forest:

A stench of rot curled beneath the pine-scented air, sharp as spoiled blood.

Where it passed, the soil withered, and the moss recoiled.

But the deeper Ciran moved, the more his instincts tightened, like wire around a throat.

The mist thickened.

The air, changed.

Still.

Too still.

No rustle of birds.

No insect hum.

Even the trees felt as if they were listening, holding breath.

Ciran froze mid-step.

His head tilted, breath suspended.

Every fiber of his being screaming one word:

Trap.

But it was already moving.

The first arrow whistled through the mist.

He twisted, sharp and fluid, it missed his neck by a whisper, parting the air beside his jaw.

The second arrow sliced through his outer cloak, it grazed his shoulder.

A thin line of red bloomed against fabric, already darkening.

The third, thud, buried itself in the bark of a tree beside him, quivering like a viper waiting to strike again.

But the fourth.

Thud.