The wind was sharp the morning after the Blood Moon, slicing through the Ravennor estate like a warning. Celine stood in the middle of the training courtyard, her silver hair loose and wild, crimson eyes narrowed in thought.
No one knew.
No one could know.
The power still pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat—fierce, primal, alive. She hadn't slept. Her body ached, her muscles trembled, and her vision occasionally swam with ghostly red afterimages. Yet she stood tall, unmoving, as the sun broke across the horizon.
The Wolf Soul had awakened.
She needed to learn how to control it. Fast.
"Again," she muttered to herself, stepping into a defensive stance.
She mimicked what little she remembered from the basic forms—stances drilled into every noble-born child since they could walk. But now, each movement felt... sharper. Stronger. Her balance shifted with perfect precision, her reflexes blindingly fast.
Her nails elongated for a heartbeat before she forced them back. Her senses sharpened and dulled in waves—she could hear the stable boy humming three courtyards away, could smell the morning dew on iron.
She gasped.
It was too much.
A burst of pain seized her ribs, and she collapsed to one knee, chest heaving. Her fingertips left faint claw-marks in the stone.
This power… it's not just strength. It's hunger. It's instinct.
And it was trying to take over.
She grit her teeth. "I'm not your puppet," she hissed.
The wolf inside growled—whether in warning or respect, she couldn't tell.
"You're mine now," she whispered, eyes glowing red for a split second.
From behind the colonnade, a shadow moved.
A tall man stepped forward silently, eyes narrowed, arms folded behind his back. He was wrapped in a dark cloak lined with fur, his expression unreadable.
Darian, the Ravennor family's old steward. And once, long ago, a soldier of the king.
"I thought I told you to rest," he said, voice gravelly.
Celine didn't look at him. "I did. For two hours."
He sighed. "You collapsed last night. The Blood Moon nearly killed you."
"It didn't." She stood, unsteady but proud.
Darian's gaze sharpened. "Something happened, didn't it?"
She hesitated.
Then lied. "No. Just... residual reaction. I was hoping for something, and it didn't come."
He watched her in silence.
Celine knew Darian was not easily fooled. He'd taught her to walk, to read, to hold a blade. He knew her better than most.
But he only said, "Then train with focus. Not desperation. Or you'll get yourself killed."
He turned to leave, then paused. "And Celine…"
She glanced back.
"There are eyes everywhere. The Prince might have declared the betrothal broken, but the Council still watches you. Don't give them reason to tighten the leash."
She nodded once.
He disappeared into the mist.
Later that day, in the hidden chamber beneath the estate, she found the old tome.
Bound in leather darkened with age, the book bore no title, only a crescent symbol etched in faded silver. She ran her fingers over it reverently.
Velkhar's Legacy.
It was not just a myth. The Awakening ceremony had not been created by chance—it was derived from this. From him.
The First Werewolf.
She flipped through brittle pages, her hands trembling. Symbols she'd studied as a child now made sense. The moon phases, the bloodlines, the convergence of instincts and soul. The hierarchy of power.
Bloodline Ranks:
Moonborne Fang – swift and agile, natural hunters. (Kael's line)
Nightfang Howl – focused on senses and stealth.
Ironhide Claw – brute strength and endurance.
Stormshade Vein – rare, storm-affinity users.
Wolf Soul – extinct… or so they believed.
And beneath all that—a single passage scrawled in red ink.
"The soul of the First shall not awaken in silence. It comes with the howl of the moon, and leaves only ruin for those unworthy."
Her blood chilled.
What does it mean to be worthy?
That night, she dreamed.
She stood in the ruins of a battlefield, blood staining the grass, and above her loomed the beast—Velkhar. Towering. Shadowy. Its breath a furnace.
"You hesitate," the voice boomed in her mind.
"I'm afraid," she admitted.
"You should be."
Its head lowered, pressing against her brow.
"But fear sharpens the fang. You are not prey, child of my blood. You are the blade."
She awoke in sweat, hand clenched around the necklace her mother once gave her.
Then I will become the blade. Even if it means becoming something else entirely.
Meanwhile, in the royal citadel far to the west, Prince Kael Duskfang stood before his father, the King of the Silver Court.
"You refused the Ravennor girl publicly."
Kael didn't flinch. "She failed the Awakening."
"Did she?" the King mused, his voice quiet and dangerous. "Or did you simply fear what a Wolf Soul might become?"
Kael's eyes narrowed. "She is a relic. A name without meaning. I need a partner, not a fairytale."
The King smiled coldly. "Be careful, son. Fairytales have teeth."
Kael said nothing, but as he turned away, a shadow of doubt flickered behind his ice-blue gaze.