The stone floor beneath Elena's bare feet was colder than she expected. As she entered the Great Hall, a hush fell over the assembled Lycans—hundreds of golden eyes watching her every step. Warriors in ceremonial leathers flanked the walls. Elders in silver cloaks sat on a raised platform, their expressions carved from suspicion and superstition. At the center stood a crescent-shaped altar of white granite veined with crimson— "the Stone of Judgment".
She could feel the pendant beneath her tunic vibrating, almost humming in rhythm with her heartbeat. The Moon Goddess's warning from the dream still echoed in her head: *"Even kings can fall to shadow."*
Lucien stood off to the side of the stone, robed in deep black trimmed with silver thread, his golden eyes unreadable. He said nothing as she entered—but his gaze didn't leave her once.
The High Priestess stepped forward. "You have been summoned, Elena Carter," she intoned, "to face judgment by Moonfire. You wear the Queen's relic. You wield a power untrained. The court will determine whether you are Moonborn... or cursed."
Sera stood to the side of the altar, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Elena couldn't read her expression—guarded, as always—but the Beta's jaw was tense.
"I'm not a witch," Elena said softly, though it felt like a half-truth now. "I'm not from here. I didn't ask for this."
"That is not for us to decide," said the Priestess. "The stone will see into your blood."
Two guards stepped forward, each bearing a ceremonial dagger. Elena's eyes darted to Lucien. He gave a slight nod—trust, or encouragement, or warning, she couldn't tell.
The guards flanked her. One held her arm; the other drew a shallow cut along her forearm.
Her blood spilled onto the granite.
Nothing happened at first.
Then the stone **glowed.**
Not silver, like Lucien's magic. Not red, like Lycan blood.
**Blue-white light** erupted in intricate lines across the stone, curling in ancient runes that pulsed with power. A gust of wind blew through the sealed hall, extinguishing half the torches.
Gasps echoed. Someone whispered, *"Moonborn…"*
The High Priestess's eyes widened in fear. "This is not possible. That light belongs to the Lost Queen."
"She is not the Queen," one Elder barked. "She is an echo. An imposter. Or a trick."
"I saw her flames," another muttered. "She could burn the court down if she wished."
"I didn't ask for any of this!" Elena shouted, voice cracking. "I didn't come here to threaten you—I just want answers."
The glow around her blood intensified.
And then—
The pendant lifted from beneath her shirt. Floated into the air. Spun slowly in place.
**BOOM.**
A shockwave of power burst from the altar, throwing several Elders backward. Lucien stepped forward instinctively, hand on his sword—but he didn't draw it.
Instead, he looked at Elena as if he were seeing her for the first time.
"Elena," he said quietly. "What are you?"
"I don't know," she said—honestly, helplessly.
A voice—hers, but not hers—spoke through her lips. "She walks the path of the Queen reborn. But the Queen must choose."
Silence.
The pendant dropped back against her chest.
Her knees buckled.
Lucien was there in two strides, catching her before she hit the floor.
She gripped his arm. "You believe me now?" she rasped.
"I never stopped," he murmured.
The court exploded into chaos—shouting, arguing, threats hurled like spears. Lucien lifted Elena into his arms.
"She is under my protection," he growled. "Anyone who challenges her—challenges me."
No one dared move.
As he carried her from the hall, Elena leaned her head against his chest.
"You shouldn't have done that," she whispered.
"I should have done it sooner," he replied.
And in that moment, she felt it—the spark of something ancient and undeniable.
Not just magic.
Not just prophecy.
Bond.