Chapter 1 – Exile's Echo
“Bandits ahead. Four riders, maybe five,” came the gravelly voice of Garran, White-Ash’s lead scout.
Seph didn’t look up from where she was grinding feverroot into paste. “Are they looking to fight or trade?”
“Hard to say.” Garran’s boots crunched over the brittle sand as he walked closer. “But they’ve got blades out.”
Seph sighed. “Then it’s fight.”
Steel rang out minutes later. Seph ducked beneath the flap of her tent, apron already stained. The wounded came quickly, some from her mercenary band, others from the ambushers. White-Ash didn’t discriminate—coin was coin.
A soldier groaned as she stitched his thigh. “You always this gentle, doc?”
“You always this whiny?” she replied without pause.
He laughed weakly, then winced. “Fair.”
The air shifted. A howl tore across the ravine.
And then the screaming started.
Not pain. Terror.
Seph stood slowly. The world outside her tent flickered—shadows streaked past like ghosts.
Garran crashed into view, bleeding from his shoulder, eyes wide. “Wolf-soldier. Marked. He’s not bandit, he’s berserk.”
She went still. “Lunar corruption?”
“Worse. He’s gone full core-mad. No orders, just kill.”
Someone screamed again—cut short.
Seph dropped the mortar and grabbed her satchel. “Distract him. Don’t kill.”
“You mad?”
“No time,” she snapped, already moving.
The berserker stood in the clearing, drenched in blood, jaws frothing, eyes pale as dead moons. Arrows stuck from his flank. He didn’t feel them. His claws tore into a tent post, snapping the wood like twigs.
Seph stepped into view.
He turned. Snarled. Charged.
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she raised her hand. Silver light glimmered from her palm—faint, trembling, then steady.
The wolf froze mid-lunge, paws skidding.
She whispered words no one had heard in five years. “Rest, brother.”
The silver light grew. The beast shuddered, whimpered... then collapsed at her feet, unconscious, breathing evenly.
Silence rippled out. Then came the stunned cheers.
“Moon above,” someone muttered. “She... calmed him.”
Seph lowered her hand slowly. Her pulse raced.
Too much.
She turned, about to vanish into the night.
But Garran was watching. So was Harla. And two others.
Their eyes had caught something—something no healer should have.
A crescent scar glowing through her torn tunic.
She met Garran’s stare. For a moment, the wind stopped.
Then she moved.
---
That night, as the camp celebrated surviving, Seph crouched behind her tent, frantically packing salves and dried herbs into her satchel.
Garran’s voice drifted from the shadows. “Planning on running again?”
She didn’t answer.
“I saw it,” he continued. “The mark.”
“I’m no one,” she murmured. “Let me stay no one.”
He stepped closer, folding his arms. “You calmed a berserk wolf. You think no one’s going to notice?”
Seph stood slowly. “I saved lives.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
He hesitated. “Look… I owe you. For my son. You stitched him back together after his shoulder got mangled. So I’ll buy you two hours’ head start. After that, I can’t stop what comes.”
She didn’t thank him. Only nodded once.
---
Miles away, in a blackened valley where shadows never lifted, soldiers knelt in formation.
At their center, Leo, Eclipse Warlord, stood bare-chested beneath moonlight, allowing the fevered blood to steam from the wound on his ribs. The poisoned arrow had barely grazed him, yet fire bloomed inside his veins.
His lieutenant, Cormac, bowed low. “The rebel camp is taken, General.”
“Any survivors?”
“Few. But the scouts report... rumors.”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“They say... a healer stilled a rabid wolf with light.”
He scoffed. “Lunacy.”
“Maybe. But the scent... one of our scouts said she smelled of lilies.”
Leo stilled.
The world spun slightly.
Lilies?
His memories were fragmented—hazy flashes of cliffs, lullabies, and a soft laugh he couldn’t place.
He gritted his teeth. “Find her.”
“Sir?”
“I want her brought in. Alive.”
The poison surged again. Leo staggered.
“General?”
“I’ll... survive.” He clenched his fists, forcing strength into limbs that trembled.
As he turned toward the medics’ tent, the wind howled across the valley, bringing with it a trace of something soft. Something floral.
Lilies.
Again.
He froze.
The fever worsened.
---
Seph didn’t get far.
At dawn, armored wolves surrounded the White-Ash camp. No warning, no mercy. The Warlord’s banner flew above them: a broken crescent over a sword.
Seph ducked behind crates, heart hammering. Garran shouted, blades clashed, but it was no use. They were outnumbered ten to one.
Then came the voice.
Low. Icy. Absolute.
“Bring the healer. The one who tamed the mad wolf.”
She tried to run.
Too slow.
A gauntlet grabbed her wrist, wrenching her forward.
“Let me go!”
They dragged her through ash and dust to the center of camp.
Leo stood there.
The Eclipse Warlord in full black armor, his silver hair wild, eyes glassy with fever.
He looked down at her, expression unreadable. Then he said—
“You. Heal me.”
She stared up, breath caught.
He didn’t recognize her.
Her voice was hoarse. “If I do, you let them go?”
He tilted his head. “You’re in no position to bargain.”
“Try healing while your ribs liquefy.”
Silence. Then—
“Fine. Treat me. The mercs walk.”
They dragged her into the command tent.
She knelt beside him, unrolling her kit. As she peeled back the bloodied cloth, she paused.
There. Across his ribs—old scars she remembered.
She forced her hands to remain steady.
He watched her closely. “Where did you learn to draw fever?”
She didn’t answer. Focused on pulling lunar root from her pouch.
“I’ve seen your kind before,” he said. “Healers. Always hiding something.”
“I hide nothing.”
“Then why the mask?”
“Because some wolves bite the hand that soothes.”
He smirked. “You’re braver than you look.”
“I’m more than I look.”
She pressed the poultice to his side. His body jerked.
He growled. “It burns.”
“It’s meant to.”
She hummed softly, a melody from a forgotten lullaby.
His eyelids fluttered. “That song…”
Her hand froze.
Too late.
He slumped backward, unconscious, breath steadying.
She rose, backing away.
He hadn’t seen her face.
But he had smelled the lilies.
---
Outside, Garran and the mercenaries were being released. Cormac stood beside them, arms folded, watching the healer’s tent.
“Strange woman,” he muttered.
Inside, Seph collected her tools.
She turned to slip out—
“Wait.”
Leo’s voice.
Her heart stopped.
He was awake.
Eyes locked on her. Bleary. Confused. And something else—
Recognition?
“You. Stay,” he said hoarsely. “You’ll be my personal medic now.”
She froze.
Trapped.
Bound again to the warlord she had once trusted.
She whispered, “As you wish, my lord.”
Outside, the eclipse winds stirred, heralding a fate neither of them could outrun.