The winds over the Moonlit Steppes carried a sharp bite, as if the gods themselves had tired of mercy. Tattered prayer banners whipped and snapped above the sea of tents, sending a clatter of wooden charms singing through the air.
Aldric stood at the edge of the encampment, looking out across the moor as dawn spilled gold over the earth, transforming the frost-coated grass into a field of glittering blades. Yet even that beauty could not erase the sense of foreboding gnawing at him.
Rowena was at his side, one hand resting on the hilt of her curved sword. "They will test you today," she warned, scanning the rows of banners with a predator's gaze.
Aldric nodded, jaw tight. "Let them. I have no patience left for traitors."
The day's council was to be the fiercest yet — a gathering of old enemies, proud allies, and opportunists who would trade their mothers for a scrap of power. As he walked toward the meeting tent, the hum of whispered gossip followed him like a funeral dirge.
He's returned from the Black Forest, some say he's cursed…
The Crescent Wolf cannot control the prophecy…
He will kill us all before the moon's next turning…
He heard every word, let them drip into his bones like poison, then crushed them underfoot.
Inside the grand tent, a brazier burned with a smokeless blue flame, meant to keep demons and hexes at bay. The nobles sat in a circle of worn velvet chairs, eyes hungry, teeth bared behind polite smiles.
Lord Marius, once again draped in a cloak of wolf pelts, spoke first. "High King, you call us to bow — yet your own lands lie weakened. Why should we spill our blood for a prophecy you yourself do not understand?"
Aldric studied him with a calm so deadly the air seemed to freeze. "If you will not bleed for the kingdom," he said evenly, "then you will bleed for your cowardice."
The tension was like a blade drawn over skin — so taut it might snap.
Lady Caelia, narrow-eyed and sharp-tongued, leaned forward. "The Crescent Wolf is no longer a symbol of unity, my king. Some whisper it is a harbinger of our ruin."
Rowena bristled, but Aldric lifted a hand to silence her. "The Crescent Wolf," he said, voice a growl of thunder, "is the reason you still have a kingdom to whisper about."
Silence.
A flicker of fear crossed Caelia's face before she masked it again with a sip of wine.
Hours crawled by as the moot debated grain taxes, border disputes, alliances — the endless, exhausting rot of politics. Aldric forced himself to endure it, even as Luceris's spirit inside him screamed to run them all through and claim their heads.
Patience, he told himself. One move at a time.
When the lords finally departed to gorge themselves on roasted deer and strong spirits, Aldric stayed behind, studying the flicker of the blue flames.
Rowena knelt beside him, shoulder brushing his. "You hate this," she murmured.
He barked a quiet laugh. "I would rather face an army of Wraith Wolves than argue the price of barley."
She smiled, a rare soft curve of her mouth that reminded him how human she still was beneath her steel. "It is a kind of war. Just a quieter one."
That night, Aldric walked alone through the camp, past knots of warriors sharing black bread and mead, past drunken nobles gambling over polished bones. The scent of roasting lamb clung to the air, mingled with woodsmoke and the copper tang of sharpening blades.
In a corner near the horse lines, a group of ragged children played at swords, using sticks as if they were heroes of old. One boy, hair tangled and eyes fierce, swung his stick in a wild arc and shouted, "I am Aldric, the Wolf King!"
The others laughed and fell around him, pretending to die.
Aldric stopped, a strange warmth rising through the ice in his veins. Did they truly see him that way? A monster, a legend, a living myth?
Before he could think more, a crow cawed harshly from a twisted yew tree, startling the children. The bird's black feathers gleamed like polished onyx, and for an instant, Aldric swore he saw something flicker behind its eyes — an intelligence too sharp for a simple animal.
Prophecy.
His heart skipped. The Oracle had spoken of ravens and wolves, of a shadow that would wear the face of family.
He turned away, unsettled.
The next morning, a rider came, galloping hard across the moor, cloak shredded by speed. Her horse nearly collapsed as she skidded to a halt before Aldric's pavilion.
"News from Frostfang!" she gasped, sliding from the saddle. "Your brother, Lord Thorian, has been taken!"
Ice poured through Aldric's blood. "Taken? By whom?"
The messenger's voice broke. "They say… by a woman in white. She came in a storm, with eyes like night, and spirits bound to her call."
Aldric's mind spun — white robes, storm, spirits. A priestess? A witch?
Or worse…
A pawn of the prophecy.
He seized the girl's shoulders. "Where was he last seen?"
"At the high gate," she choked, tears spilling. "They say she called down lightning — and then he was gone."
Aldric released her, heart hammering like a war drum.
Rowena stepped forward, calm even as the news shook the tent. "We ride?"
Aldric nodded once, rage coiling through him like a living serpent. "Tonight."
Preparations happened in a blur. His soldiers were ready before dusk, their armor etched with fresh runes of protection, their eyes bright with the promise of battle.
Aldric stood by his great black charger, breathing deeply. Memories tangled with dread: Thorian had once been the boy who braided wildflowers into Aldric's hair, who stayed up by candlelight reading old scrolls of Crescent Wolf legends.
To think of him in enemy hands made Aldric's stomach twist with rage and shame.
Rowena approached, checking the buckles of her harness. "You have to stay focused," she warned. "If this is the prophecy's doing, they will try to break you."
He swallowed. "Let them try."
They rode out under a moon so bright it seemed to bleed silver over the plains, turning the warriors' cloaks into a river of shifting shadows.
Somewhere beyond, Aldric could sense a power pulsing in the dark — a cruel, cunning presence that laughed at him through the folds of night.
They rode hard through marshes and ice-choked streams, horses steaming, hooves ringing against the frozen earth.
At last, they reached the border of Frostfang.
What met them was devastation.
The walls were scorched, banners torn and trampled in the mud. Wolves lay dead in the kennels, slaughtered by an enemy who knew how to break their spirits as well as their bodies.
The courtyard reeked of burned herbs, and strange symbols — twisted, jagged runes — had been painted on the gates in something dark and sticky.
Blood.
Aldric dismounted slowly, breathing in the horror. His soldiers spread through the courtyard, weapons drawn.
Rowena stepped over a shattered shield, studying the rune marks. "This is… older magic than I have ever seen."
Aldric knelt, tracing a rune with a gloved finger. It burned cold, stinging through the leather.
"Prophecy," he whispered.
They pushed deeper into the castle, every hallway an echoing tomb. Once, this place had been filled with laughter, music, and the warm scents of roast boar and honey cakes. Now, only silence remained, and the coppery bite of blood.
At last they reached the high tower. The wind moaned around its ancient stones like a grieving ghost.
There, pinned to the tower door with an obsidian dagger, was a scrap of white silk embroidered with a raven.
Aldric tore it down, fury shaking him.
"The White Lady," he spat.
Rowena's face paled. "The old legends say she commands the storms. That she steals souls for her master."
Aldric closed his fist around the silk. "Then I will take them back."
They searched the tower, but Thorian was gone — spirited away into the night, leaving only those mocking runes behind.
At dawn, Aldric stood on the highest battlement, letting the icy wind whip his cloak behind him like a black flag.
He felt the Crescent Wolf stir within, howling its rage through every muscle and bone.
They will break you through your family, the Oracle had warned.
Aldric tightened his grip on the parapet, eyes glittering with unstoppable resolve.
"Let them try," he growled again to the empty sky.
His voice carried, wild and inhuman, as if it belonged to the Wolf King of the old stories, the one who had fought gods and torn down tyrants.
The sun crawled above the mountains like a bloodied coin, gilding the destruction with false warmth.
Rowena approached quietly, her breath steaming in the bitter wind. "What next?"
Aldric turned to her, his face carved from stone. "We find the White Lady. We break her. We bring Thorian home."
Rowena nodded. "And the prophecy?"
Aldric's eyes flashed with that strange, holy fire, the Crescent Wolf clawing at the edges of his soul.
"Prophecy will bow," he swore, "or I will burn it from the world."