Reign of the Forsaken Moon - Chapter 55: Chapter 55

The moon hung low over Windrest, casting its pale light over the quiet palace. But within the stone walls, restlessness brewed. The peace following the war had grown too still—unnatural in its silence. It was the kind of quiet that came before a storm.
Seraphina stood at the long map table in the strategy hall, fingers tracing the edge of the sea, eyes fixed on the southernmost tip of the Moonlands where Duskreach was said to lie beyond the waves. It was more than legend now. The Hollow's whisper across Kael’s amulet was growing louder, even in her dreams.
They had only just begun to rebuild.
And yet destiny called again.
Preparation for Voyage
Ships were being assembled in the hidden cove near the Cliffs of Aerrin, the only safe place to launch a mission without drawing enemy attention. Mira had already begun selecting scouts and warriors. Darian was organizing supply chains and securing diplomatic safe routes.
But the most delicate task fell to Seraphina: calming a realm that had only just begun to taste peace.
She addressed the Council of Packs that morning, her voice even, but firm.
“We are not preparing for war,” she said, “but for answers. The Hollow that nearly destroyed our lands was but a shadow of something older—something awakening across the sea.”
There were murmurs. Warnings.
“What if this voyage draws the danger here?”
“What if your place is here, Luna?”
“Would you leave us so soon?”
Seraphina silenced them with a raised hand.
“I died once for this realm,” she said. “I will not let it die again while I stand still. If danger is coming, I will meet it halfway.”
Most bowed.
But not all.
The Rift Within
That night, Darian returned from the harbor with blood on his knuckles and tension in his shoulders.
“We intercepted a messenger heading north,” he said. “Unmarked letters. One of them bore your seal.”
Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. “A forgery?”
“Worse,” he said. “A betrayal.”
He placed the scroll on the table. She opened it—and saw her own words written in familiar script. An invitation to meet privately at the docks. It bore the royal wax mark.
But she had never written it.
“The ink is fresh,” she murmured. “Someone’s trying to lure me away… or discredit me.”
Mira entered moments later, grim. “Kael’s chambers were ransacked. The relic he gave you—the amulet—is missing.”
Seraphina’s blood turned to ice.
“This isn’t just sabotage. It’s treason.”
The Web Tightens
By morning, two guards were found unconscious near the council wing. One of them woke long enough to whisper a name:
Thorne.
Seraphina froze.
Thorne was a lesser Alpha from one of the border clans—eager to rise, always watching, always calculating. He had knelt during her first public court after the war, offering allegiance and tribute.
And now he was missing.
Mira’s voice was sharp. “If he’s working with remnants of the Hollow cult—or worse—with outside forces—”
“Then he knows about Duskreach,” Seraphina said.
Darian slammed his fist into the wall. “We let a snake into the house.”
“No,” Seraphina said coldly. “He thought he was in the house. Let me show him he never was.”
A Queen on the Hunt
Seraphina didn’t wait for guards.
She donned her battle cloak, clasped the Crescent Blade at her hip, and rode out under the shroud of nightfall with Darian and Mira beside her. They followed the trail beyond the eastern watchtower, through the Whispering Pines—once sacred, now often used for secret crossings.
Mira held up a hand.
“There,” she said. “Fresh hoofprints. Two riders.”
They dismounted and moved on foot, tracking the scent of sweat and steel.
At a clearing near a frozen brook, they found them.
Thorne. And another—a cloaked figure exchanging a scroll for a satchel of silver.
When Seraphina stepped into the light, the betrayal on Thorne’s face wasn’t guilt—it was arrogance.
“You,” he said. “You should be asleep in your golden halls, not chasing shadows.”
“I follow threats wherever they hide,” Seraphina said.
Thorne sneered. “Your throne won’t survive you, Fire Queen. You’ve already broken the rules of the Moonlands. The old blood won’t stand for it.”
Darian drew his blade.
Thorne threw down a smoke flare, and chaos erupted.
The Flames Answer
Seraphina moved like lightning, sword slicing through shadow. Thorne’s companion fell first—impaled by Mira’s arrow through the chest. But Thorne moved fast—too fast for a wolf of his size.
“I was promised a place at the new court!” he shouted, parrying Darian’s swing. “Across the sea—they remember strength. Not your poison of peace.”
Seraphina’s eyes glowed as she stepped into the fray, her blade meeting his in a flash of fire.
“Then go to them,” she hissed. “And take my fury with you.”
She struck hard—flame surging from the blade—and sliced across his side. He howled, shifting mid-step, his wolf form massive and silver-gray.
But Seraphina didn’t flinch.
She embraced the Hollow spark within her—just enough.
And when she met him again, it was with a roar and fire-wreathed claws.
Moments later, Thorne lay unconscious and broken.
Not dead.
But defeated.
Trial of the Realm
By morning, Windrest’s square was filled.
Thorne stood bound in silver thread, his wounds bandaged but deep. Seraphina stood before her people, her voice echoing across the stone.
“This realm is no longer ruled by fear. Nor by secrets.”
She turned to the Council.
“You asked if I would leave too soon. Now ask yourselves: would you let treachery grow because it’s comfortable?”
The council bowed.
A sentence was passed.
Thorne was stripped of rank and banished—not killed, but exiled to the old Wildlands, where he would live under guard and silence.
Later, Darian stood beside her as the crowd dispersed.
“You could have killed him,” he said.
“I’ve killed enough,” she replied. “And exile is worse for a man like him.”
He nodded. “What now?”
“Now we leave.”