"Aurora."
A small child rubbed her tired eyes, clutching a worn stuffed animal to her chest. "Mommy?" she called softly, her silver hair tangled from sleep, brown eyes wide with confusion.
Her mother burst into the room, panic etched into her face. She swept the child into her arms, dust rising from the old floorboards as they ran.
Then came the sound—the terrible roar of bombs. Hell had broken loose. Gunfire shattered the night.
Her mother ran as fast as she could, holding Aurora close, shielding her from the chaos. But then—
Crack.
A gunshot rang out. Her mother collapsed.
A German soldier stepped forward, his boots crunching in the rubble. He sneered.
"Look," he said, nodding to the others. "A child. Should I shoot her too?"
Aurora didn't understand. She couldn't speak. Her little body trembled. Her mother, bleeding, reached for her, voice barely a whisper.
"Run."
Rain began to fall over Paris.
Aurora stumbled back, then turned and ran, her mother's voice the last thing she'd hear before the final shot echoed behind her.
Now, years later, she stood beneath the cold moon, eyes closed against the wind. The memory still burned.
She had been found—rescued—by the woman she now called Mother. She gave Aurora the sun pendant. It changed her. Protected her.
Aurora opened her eyes slowly, her jaw set, the golden pendant glowing faintly against her chest.
She would never give it away. Not while she still breathed.
Footsteps crunched softly in the snow behind her. It was her brother—the one who had watched her grow into the woman she was now. He was much older, a seasoned warrior who had endured countless battles, seen horrors that would break most men, and still carried the weight of fallen comrades in silent, unwavering resolve.
"Sister," he said gently, "the full moon has passed. You don't need to stand guard anymore. We'll move toward the gate soon—the summit is about to begin."
He paused, his sharp eyes softening. "You look troubled. What's wrong?"
Aurora wiped a single tear from her cheek. "Just… remembering," she said quietly. She knelt, scooping a handful of snow into her palm, then raised it above her head and let the wind scatter it into the night.
"I hate war," she whispered. "The suffering. The loss. Why must humans always fight?"
Thrain walked beside her, his gaze distant. "I once served a great king," he said, voice low. "A man of honor, of justice. He believed in peace… and he was murdered by his own son. After that, the kingdom fell into ruin. Shadows consumed what was once a land of light."
He looked at her, solemn. "For every good man, there is one who craves destruction. It's balanced. But if you want a real answer…"
He sighed. "It's greed. Power. Emotion. Once a human tastes power, they hunger for more. It becomes a drug—irresistible. And only those with the strongest will can rise above it."
Aurora said nothing for a moment, her eyes still fixed on the place where the snowflakes had vanished into the wind.
"Humans aren't the only ones," Thrain continued quietly. "Any living being with self-awareness can fall prey to the same darkness. I've seen it with my own eyes."
He paused, his voice laced with sorrow.
"It happened to an old friend of mine… Xavier. He was a good man. A noble soul among the wolves—perhaps the best of them. I met him many times, and I held him in the highest regard. But now… he's dead."
Thrain's jaw tightened.
"There's no proof he had any children. No one stepped forward. No heir. No claim. Just silence. And that silence… It speaks volumes. Maybe one of his kin betrayed him. Maybe someone close seized power. Or maybe I'm wrong."
He glanced toward the forest, where howls echoed faintly in the distance.
"But if I've learned anything, it's that power changes people—and silence, more often than not, hides the truth."
Aurora turned to face him, her eyes solemn. She knew all too well that the wolves had been left to fend for themselves. Their leader was gone—a man she had met once, a man who carried great love in his heart. His death should not have come through violence… it should have been in peace, in old age.
Raising her hand, a bloom of frost formed in her palm, rising into a delicate sculpture of ice. She lifted it toward the moon.
"To Xavier," she whispered, voice heavy with reverence. "You were loved by many—by wolves, by vampires, and even by fate itself. May you walk with the moon, forever remembered."
Then, the ice in her hand shattered, scattering into the wind like snow.
They stood in silence until a raven flew past, its wings slicing through the cold air—a silent signal. The summit was about to begin. Without a word, they turned and walked forward, never once looking back at the moon.
—-
Back in Beacon Hills, Iván sat shirtless in the bed of John's pickup truck as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. The sheriff's department was just rolling in—they'd left moments before getting caught.
Sunlight warmed Iván's face, but then a chill mist brushed against his skin. Strangely, it brought him comfort, a deep warmth settling in his chest.
Scott gave him a puzzled look, while Daniela had her arms wrapped tightly around her Iván. Stiles was passed out in the passenger seat, and Rowan lay in the back, pale and drenched in sweat—but better after speaking with his father.
Iván exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting to the pink and gold sky.
"What else could possibly go wrong in Beacon Hills?" he thought.
Surely… nothing.