The moon hung low over Eldermire, its pale glow casting silver shadows across the broken fields. Aria Vale crouched beside the burned remnants of her childhood home, fingers trembling as they sifted through ash and bone. Her knuckles were scraped raw, blood mixing with soot.
She should have cried. Screamed. Anything.
But numbness had long since claimed her heart.
Her father was gone—the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally. All that remained were scorched timbers and the bitter stench of charred flesh. Even the tree swing he'd built for her with his calloused hands had melted into twisted iron and ash.
Aria closed her eyes. A memory flickered—her father lifting her high into the sky, her giggles echoing through the meadows as he spun her around. "You're my little wolf," he had whispered. "Born of moonlight and fire."
He had taught her to read by candlelight, guided her hand with patience when she fumbled with a bow, and held her when nightmares clawed at her dreams. He had sung her lullabies in a low, gruff voice that made her feel safer than any locked door.
And now he was gone.
Behind her, laughter echoed from the manor atop the hill—the estate of her stepmother, Lady Mircella, and her venomous daughter, Celene. The villagers whispered of misfortune. The guards claimed it was a kitchen fire. Celene shrugged it off with a smirk.
But Aria knew better.
She had seen the smug curve of Celene's lips when the flames consumed everything. Had heard Mircella's whispered spells, her fingers trembling with power while pretending to weep.
A gust of wind swept through the clearing, scattering ash like snowflakes. Aria shivered. Not just from cold—but from the strange pulse deep in her bones. Something ancient stirred beneath her skin.
She didn't understand it. The strange dreams. The way her wounds healed faster. The way her pulse quickened beneath the full moon. The whispering winds.
She was changing. And it terrified her.
"Still crawling through dirt, sister?"
Aria turned slowly. Celene stood at the edge of the ruins, wrapped in violet silk, flanked by two brutish guards. Her golden hair shimmered like polished metal. Her voice was sugar over venom.
"You shouldn't be here," Aria said, voice low.
Celene smirked. "I came to pay my respects. To the rats who finally burned."
Fury surged through Aria. Her nails dug into her palms until blood welled.
"Careful," Celene purred. "Wouldn't want to do anything... unnatural. Wouldn't want the villagers to think you're a witch."
Aria didn't blink. "Get out."
One of the guards stepped forward. Aria met his gaze without flinching. Celene raised a hand.
"Let her rot. She'll be dead before the next moon anyway."
With a final smirk, Celene turned on her heels, silk fluttering like the wings of a carrion bird. The guards followed.
Aria stared at the footprints they left in the ash. Her entire world had burned—and the ones responsible were celebrated. Safe. Powerful.
She collapsed onto her knees. Her father's voice came back to her, soft and deep: "You are stronger than the fire, Aria. You carry the blood of the old wolves. Never forget who you are."
A sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it.
That night, she wandered into the forest, drawn by something older than thought. The woods whispered her name. Her bare feet sank into soft moss as fireflies lit her path. The deeper she went, the louder the whisper became.
She stumbled into a clearing where moonlight poured like silver milk.
A wolf stood at the center. Massive. Black as the void. Its eyes glowed silver.
Aria froze.
The wolf bowed.
Her breath caught in her throat. "What... are you?"
The wolf tilted its head. Then, with a blink, it disappeared into the trees.
That night, she dreamed of blood. Of fangs. Of howling winds. Of her own body shifting, bone stretching. She woke with a cry, her bedsheets soaked in sweat. Her nails were longer. Sharper.
And her hands were covered in dirt.
The next morning, the manor sent for her.
She stood in the throne room—an extravagant chamber draped in crimson velvet and bone-crafted decor. Mircella reclined on a cushioned chair carved from ironwood, sipping tea laced with lies.
"You'll be leaving," Mircella said calmly.
"What?"
"We've arranged for you to serve in the outer villages. You're too old to linger here. Celene is preparing for her Awakening. We don't need... distractions."
"You mean survivors."
Mircella's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, girl. You may carry the Vale name, but you were never truly one of us."
"I'm more Vale than she'll ever be," Aria snapped.
Mircella rose. "You're a mistake your father never corrected. Be grateful I allow you to live."
Guards stepped forward.
Aria clenched her fists. "You're afraid."
"Of you?" Mircella chuckled. "You're nothing but a half-blood orphan clinging to shadows."
Aria turned and walked out. But her whisper echoed louder than any scream:
"I'll show you shadows."
That night, she packed what little she had: a worn cloak, her father's pendant, a dagger she'd stolen from the kitchens. As she buckled the strap, a voice hissed through the open window.
"Run."
She spun—nothing but wind.
And yet, somewhere beyond the trees, a howl rose. It was not threatening.
It was welcoming.
She didn't sleep that night. Instead, she slipped out before dawn, cloaked in fog. As she passed through the gates of Eldermire, no one stopped her.
But something watched.
And as she vanished into the woods, the first piece of her destiny clicked into place.
To be continued...