KAEL – POV
The air trembled before I entered the glade. A low hum rang in the bones of the forest—notes of ancient power. Then I smelled it: moonfire and old ash, black pine and lingering embers, and a scent I recognized instantly… but only a shadow of what it once was. Ayla.
But she was different now. Her scent was no longer hidden. It blazed, dominant and distilled—the power to claim, sting, burn. I moved forward, pushing aside the final deadwood fence of the grove—and froze.
There she stood: framed by the glowing ash tree, silver vines of ash runes etched into the earth like a crown around her bare feet. But the true sigils were on her arms and throat, glowing faintly with the aftertaste of power; I saw them in flashes—celestial lines woven into flesh. Her eyes caught mine, molten like melted silver, radiating nothing but quiet judgment. Below us, the ground smoked lightly—she'd slain something here, something untouched by scent or mortality. She had faced it alone.
My wolf quieted, not with fear, but in worship, awed not by her strength, but by the instinct of something primal and foreign: the First Luna reborn.
She said nothing. Only turned slowly, her gaze unwavering.
"Kael," she called—her voice not a greeting but a reckoning.
"Ayla," I replied, voice harsh, ragged.
I stepped forward; her aura bristled around me like charged air before a lightning strike. I halted, aware of every heartbeat, every breath.
"You ran from me."
"You chased me like prey."
"You still do."
"Not anymore." The words landed like stones between us.
I fought to steady myself. Beneath my skin, my wolf snarled in confusion. I looked at the scorched earth before me. When I raised my gaze, she glowed like something wrought from myth.
"You killed it."
"Yes."
"That wasn't rogue magic."
"No."
"What are you?"
Her next words broke something inside me:
"I'm what they tried to erase. What your court buried. What your Luna feared. What the Seer Council failed to contain. I am… the First Luna reborn."
I tasted the air. The bond flared—this time not drawing her near, but yanking me closer with impossible force. My wolf howled its need to mark her, to bind her with a primal claim. But a deeper, older obedience stayed in my hand. She was not prey. She was not my to capture.
"You're dangerous," I whispered, the words almost reverent.
She half-smiled. "So are you."
"I came to bring you back," I said.
"To your court?" she replied.
"To my side."
"That's not the same thing," she said, stepping forward until our chests were nearly brushing.
"Then tell me…" I forced air through clenched teeth. "What is?"
She held me with her eyes. Unyielding.
"Let me choose," she said quietly, "or lose me forever."
Everything that defined me as king, alpha, hunter, dropped away in that moment. This wasn't about claiming. This was about surviving her.
The Trial of Teeth was something I never expected to face, but she instituted it with the presence of a queen. Ancestor's whispers had drifted into my mind—tales of Lunas testing Alpha worthiness, a ceremony forbidden centuries ago, buried under diplomacy and fear of too-powerful wolves.
She demanded I strip every piece of my rank. My name. My need to reign. I felt my aura recede, like pulling in a wolf's claws. I was no longer King Valerius. I was Kael, standing naked before her truth.
Her scent flared—like white-heat air around our bodies—but it wasn't lust. It was truth, and I sagged beneath it.
Then she offered the bare flesh of her throat, a gesture older than any ceremony I knew. My wolf snapped forward—I wanted to bite, mark, claim. But I steadied. My hands shook; my claws withdrew.
Then she pressed her palm to my chest. A spark rode the air; my heart thundered like war drums and fear, and every instinct screamed to take her fully. But I held fast: honor, discipline, self-mastery, the things that made me unshakeable.
She stepped back.
Her whisper calmed the chaos: "You passed."
I exhaled, the tension of centuries released from my bones. The bond glowed between us—soft as breath. Strong as bone. I had not taken her. I had not dominated her. And yet... she chose me.
We sat under the ash tree as dawn painted soft gold across broken ground. She wore my cloak; the runes on her skin cooled to quiet scars. I did not speak, did not reach out. I simply existed beside her, the weight of my choices settling around me.
"The bond feels like breath," she said finally. "Not chains."
"It's been chaos," I replied. "Every time I felt you… I thought I was losing my mind. Now I know I was just waking up."
She stood. I approached and tied her cloak—silent ceremony of two wolves bound to walk side by side. I didn't brush her skin. I didn't demand more. I only held the ends of the cloth as she fastened it.
She walked ahead; I followed. Not part of her journey—but with her. Not out of ownership—but synchronized hearts, aligned destinies.
Then the air shifted: sharp, metallic, pure predator. She stiffened, head tilting east. I reached for my blade. She raised her hand: "Don't." Her eyes focused.
From the treeline stepped a lone figure. Another Alpha—braided hair, lean muscle, cold-jade eyes.
"King," he drawled, amusement in his voice. "I didn't expect to find you groveling out here."
My blood warred with calm fury, but I stood silent, muscles coiled. The man's gaze landed on Ayla and a savage grin split his features: "So this is her…the divine bitch."
I growled—low, a warning not to test me. His eyes drifted back to me, mock-deferential.
"What will you do? Mark her? She'd tear you apart."
My hand tightened around the hilt of my sword, but I didn't move.
Between Ayla and me, the bond pulsed—a living thread of power and choice.
The ash tree split down its trunk with a thunderous crack.
The intruder watched, grinning as violence and magic threatened the air.
His voice turned deadly, soft and confident: "I want her blood."
I stepped forward. Pale morning light fell across my iron face. Every fiber of my being bristled.
"Then come take it," I said. My voice—a blade.
The Alpha who stepped from the trees wasn't scentless, but he smelled wrong—like blood on old iron, soured dominance, and something else: magic that didn't belong to him. The kind that clung to cowards who took shortcuts to power.
He didn't fear me.
He should have.
"I want her blood," he said again, his smile jagged.
I stepped forward, blade half-drawn. "Then come take it."
Ayla didn't flinch. She stood tall behind me, wrapped in my cloak, glowing like the dawn had come to kneel behind her.
But this Alpha didn't see her. Not truly.
He saw a prize.
A myth.
A vessel to break open and drink from.
And he wasn't alone.
I felt it a second before they moved—two others behind him, flanking wide through the trees. Rogues. Older. One moved with the gait of a wounded wolf, the other with the confidence of a trained killer.
I could take two. Maybe three.
But not with Ayla nearby.
Not if they touched her.
"You have until the count of three," I warned.
"One," he said mockingly, raising his hand.
The others lunged.
I didn't think so.
I moved.
Steel met claws. A howl rang out. One rogue was down—my dagger in his throat.
But the second got past me.
Ayla turned to face him. Her hands lifted. No panic. No rush.
She whispered something I didn't catch—and light erupted from her palms like a detonation.
The rogue went up like dry bark.
The trees didn't burn.
But the grove trembled.
The lead Alpha roared and charged straight for her.
I caught him mid-sprint, tackling him to the ground. Fists, claws, knees, elbows—he fought like a berserker, fast and frenzied.
But I fought like a king.
He bared his teeth. "She'll never accept you."
"She doesn't have to," I said, slamming my head into his nose. "She just has to survive you."
He rolled us, then froze.
Because Ayla was above us.
Runes glowing.
Her foot came down on his neck.
He choked.
Her voice? Ice.
"You came here to take what was never yours."
He laughed, blood running from his mouth. "You'll burn. All of you. The Seers won't let this stand."
"Then let them come."
She pressed down. He gasped.
I watched as her magic sank into his skin. No fire. No light. Just stillness—a silent judgment.
Then he was gone.
Dead?
No.
Turned to stone.
His body calcified beneath her foot, frozen in place—mouth open, eyes locked wide in final horror.
I rose, breathing hard.
She looked at me.
Not triumphant.
Not afraid.
Just ready.
"They sent him," she said quietly. "To test if I was awake."
"And?" I asked.
She stepped away from the corpse-statue.
"Now they know I am."
We didn't speak for a long while. We walked through the woods, the grove behind us smoldering with sacred stillness. She didn't stumble. I didn't lead.
We walked side by side.
She carried power like most wolves carried scars—without apology.
It took everything in me not to reach for her hand.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
She would decide when the bond became more than breath between us.
And gods help the world when she does.