Reign of the Forsaken Moon - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Dawn in the Ashfang Wastes was no gentle affair.
There was no birdsong, no golden sunrise painting the sky in warmth. Only biting winds, swirling ash, and a low fog that clung to the earth like ghosts refusing to rest. It was a land for the broken and the banished—a place where even wolves walked silently.
Seraphina stood barefoot on the frostbitten ground, her breath misting before her as Darian circled her in the clearing behind his cabin.
“You want strength?” he said. “Then you’ll have to bleed for it.”
“I’ve bled enough,” she muttered.
“Not like this.”
Without warning, he struck.
She barely dodged, throwing herself sideways into the dirt as his fist cut through the air. Before she could rise, he swept her legs and sent her crashing down again. Her ribs howled in protest. She grit her teeth and rolled away, panting.
Darian stalked toward her.
“Get up.”
She did.
This time she struck first—a jab aimed for his throat. He deflected it with ease and caught her wrist, twisting her into a lock. Pain flared through her shoulder.
“You’re slow,” he growled.
“You’re obnoxious,” she spat.
He released her abruptly, and she stumbled back, catching herself.
“Again.”
For hours they danced between fists, claws, and brutal truths. Seraphina was strong—stronger than she had any right to be given her condition—but her form was ragged. Her instincts were sharp, but her stamina suffered. She had trained warriors before. Now, she was being stripped down to bone.
By midday, her lips were split, her knuckles raw, and her pride sore.
She still stood.
Darian tossed her a flask of water. “You don’t quit.”
“I can’t afford to.”
Something flickered behind his expression. Not pity—respect.
He nodded. “Then you might survive.”
That night, Darian led her beyond the ridge behind the cabin—through an old path covered in charred roots and moss-choked ruins. As they climbed higher, the wind howled louder, and the sky turned bruised with twilight.
At the top, the trees broke into a jagged plateau that overlooked a massive, sunken valley.
What Seraphina saw below stole her breath.
Dozens of wolves.
Some trained in combat rings carved from stone. Others sat around scattered fires, sharpening weapons or tending to wounds. There were elders with scars across their faces, young pups learning stances, and lone sentinels watching the edges like hawks.
They looked like rogues—filthy, hard, wild.
But they moved with purpose. With discipline.
A new pack.
Darian’s pack.
He glanced at her. “Welcome to Ashfang Hold.”
She couldn’t speak at first. The scent of them—pain, exile, grit—it felt like home in a twisted, aching way.
“How many?” she asked.
“Sixty-two. Survivors from fallen packs, outcasts from corrupted Alphas, refugees from the border wars. They found me. I gave them rules. Order. Safety.”
She watched as two young wolves wrestled beneath a torch.
“You could be building an army,” she murmured.
“I am.”
Their eyes met. For a moment, something passed between them. Understanding. A shared rage. A thirst for retribution neither dared yet speak aloud.
He turned away. “Come. There’s someone you need to meet.”
They descended into the valley. As they walked, eyes followed her—some curious, others suspicious, a few openly hostile.
Darian led her into a hollow beneath the largest rock face, where herbs hung from wooden rafters and incense filled the air with something sharp and sweet.
Inside sat an old woman.
Her skin was dark and wrinkled like tree bark, and her eyes were clouded with blindness—but Seraphina could feel her power. It rolled off her in waves—not magic, but something deeper. Ancient.
“The she-wolf rises,” the woman said, her voice like rusted silk. “I saw you in the smoke. You burn with vengeance.”
Seraphina froze. “Who are you?”
“She’s our Seer,” Darian said. “Her name is Mira.”
Mira stood, trembling, yet strong. She approached Seraphina slowly, her fingers brushing against her cheek.
“You are not who you say you are,” she murmured. “You hide your name behind ash. But I see it... Luna of Silverfang. Betrayed. Twice-born.”
Seraphina stiffened. Darian’s gaze snapped to her.
“You knew?” he asked Mira.
“I dreamed her,” the old woman said. “And in the dream, she howled at the moon with a kingdom at her feet… and blood in her hands.”
Seraphina took a step back. “Keep your visions. I’m not ready for that.”
“You must be,” Mira whispered. “Because he knows.”
Her blood ran cold. “Who?”
Mira’s milky eyes turned to her.
“Thorne. The usurper king. The mate who betrayed your bond. He has sensed your return.”
Seraphina’s heart pounded.
Mira placed a cold hand over her chest.
“You’ve escaped death once, wolf of the moon. But he will not make that mistake again.”
Later that night, Seraphina stood at the edge of the training pits, watching the warriors of Ashfang spar beneath the stars.
Darian approached quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “About who you are.”
She kept her eyes forward. “Would you have believed me?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I might have understood you better.”
“I didn’t come here to be understood. I came to survive.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then let’s help each other survive.”
She turned to him.
“I’m not ready to trust you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said. “Only to fight beside me. Because we both know—this world doesn’t give power. It takes it. And the only way to get it back is to take it by force,” she finished.
They stood in silence.
Then, as if on cue, a horn sounded from the northern ridge.
A sentry sprinted down the hill. “Wolves! Approaching the valley!”
Darian tensed.
“How many?” he asked.
“Too many to count. Armed. Trained.”
Seraphina’s breath caught.
Could it be Thorne’s scouts? Already?
Her fingers curled into fists. No more running. No more hiding.
She turned to Darian.
“Give me a sword.”
He raised a brow. “You sure you’re ready?”
“I’ve died once already,” she growled. “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”