He no longer dreamed.
Sleep had become a black ocean with no surface, no air, no stars — only endless drowning in silence. When Aldric opened his eyes, he saw nothing familiar. The walls around him were carved from dark stone, damp and seeping, etched with cruel symbols he half-recognized from stories whispered in childhood. A single lantern burned in the corner, giving off a sour yellow glow.
His limbs felt as heavy as iron, his thoughts thick and clumsy, as if some monstrous beast had torn pieces from his mind and devoured them.
The White Lady stood before him, framed by a curtain of ragged black cloth. She smiled like a blade catching the moon.
"Do you know your name?"
Aldric's throat clicked as he tried to speak. Words felt wrong on his tongue, unfamiliar. "I... don't remember."
She stepped closer, the hem of her white robes gliding across the wet stone like the sweep of a scythe. Her staff tapped a steady rhythm on the floor, a lullaby of power.
"Good," she purred. "You will be my sword, then. My hound. My sweet wolf, turned to serve the true power of this world."
Aldric's eyes burned, tears forming without reason. Something deep inside screamed at him to fight, to resist, but it was a faint spark drowning in a sea of forgetting.
She reached out, brushing her fingers across his cheek as though he were a favored pet. "The Crescent Wolf is dead," she whispered, voice soft as grave-dirt. "There is only the Hallowed Fang now."
Meanwhile, outside the Vale
Rowena's steed thundered across half-frozen rivers and crumbling roads, refusing to stop until both horse and rider were frosted white with ice. She had barely eaten in days, a haunted glint in her emerald eyes. Her thoughts rattled between rage and raw terror: Where are you, Aldric? Where are you?
At last, she reached the ancient keep of Blackspire, a fortress that had once served as a seat of justice but now stood half-ruined. There, the last loyal general awaited her — Brannoc Stonewolf, the former protector of Aldric's father.
Brannoc had grown older since Rowena saw him last, gray threaded through his heavy braids, but the fire in his eyes was unquenched.
"You look hunted," he rumbled as she dismounted.
"I am," she confessed. "We all are."
Brannoc folded his arms, the wolf-head rings on his knuckles gleaming in the hearthlight. "Tell me," he commanded, and Rowena did, voice shaking as she described the White Lady, the Drowned Vale, Aldric's capture.
When she was finished, Brannoc closed his eyes. "She will break him," he said at last, the words heavy with mourning. "She will shatter everything in him, until only what she wants remains."
Rowena slammed her fist into the table. "I will not let that happen!"
Brannoc regarded her for a long, silent moment. Then he nodded. "Then you will need the pack. All of it."
Rowena froze. "You mean—"
"Yes," Brannoc said grimly. "The old wolves. Those who still remember what it means to fight for a true Alpha."
In the darkened prison
Days blurred into nights without meaning. Aldric was made to kneel before the White Lady again and again, her words dripping poison into his soul.
"Say it," she commanded, voice echoing off the stone.
He swallowed, fighting something in his chest that felt ready to break.
"There is no Crescent Wolf," he croaked.
She smiled. "And who are you?"
He stared at the black flag she had hung behind her throne of bones, trying to remember why it made his blood burn with hate. But there was only fog.
"I... am the Hallowed Fang."
Her smile bloomed wider, cruel and triumphant.
One night, when the guards left him alone, Aldric lay in his cell staring at the guttering lantern. Somewhere, a drop of water fell in a rhythmic beat, reminding him of a lullaby his mother had once sung:
"My moon, my wolf, my wandering star..."
The memory stabbed through the haze like a dagger, so sharp he gasped. Images tumbled behind his eyes — a woman with raven hair, Thorian's mischievous grin, the first snow on the fortress steps.
He gripped the chains, nails biting so hard he drew blood.
Who am I?
His heart thundered. I am Aldric Frostfang.
But the voices were quick to drown it. No, they hissed. You belong to her. You are hers.
He wept in silence, the tears falling like tiny moons on the stone.
Beyond the Frostfang borders
Rowena and Brannoc gathered the old wolves, one by one. These were warriors with scars older than Rowena herself, men and women who had stood beside Aldric's parents before the betrayal.
They gathered in the high hall of Blackspire, banners bearing the Frostfang sigil raised once more.
Rowena stood before them, voice ringing: "Our Alpha has been taken. Our Crescent Wolf enslaved. Who will rise with me to free him?"
Silence, heavy and terrible, settled over the hall. Then one by one, the wolves stepped forward, heads bowed in solemn loyalty.
"For Frostfang," they growled in chorus.
Rowena's heart surged. For Frostfang. For Aldric.
Within Aldric's mind
The White Lady changed her methods. She no longer commanded, but spoke to him sweetly, like a lover might. She reminded him of everything he had lost, stoking grief into a festering wound.
"Your family failed you," she whispered, stroking his hair. "They left you to die. But I saved you. I gave you a purpose."
Aldric trembled under her touch. Part of him longed to believe her, to rest in the hollow peace she offered. But another part — the wolf part — raged in the shadows of his heart.
They would not leave me.
He bit his tongue until copper flooded his mouth, a small pain to anchor him to reality.
Far from the prison
Rowena's army set out across the valleys of frost, carrying the tattered banners of the Crescent Wolf. They moved like a living storm — quiet, unstoppable, full of promise and rage.
Every village they passed added to their ranks: farmers, shepherds, even children who had grown up on legends of Aldric's father.
By the time they reached the Vale, they were nearly a thousand strong, ready to tear apart the forest stone by stone if that was what it took.
Aldric's cell, days later
They led him into a vast chamber filled with red candles and a black altar. He saw his own armor there, repainted with the Hallowed Fang's symbols, a twisted mockery of his old life.
The White Lady smiled from behind the altar. "Kneel," she commanded.
He obeyed, shaking.
She lifted a goblet to his lips, forcing him to drink. The potion burned down his throat, thick and oily, carrying with it the scent of crushed wolfsbane and nightshade.
Darkness swallowed him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was on a field of war.
Men in Frostfang colors charged toward him, but the White Lady's soldiers pushed him forward, blades raised. His mind felt like a cage of broken glass, voices screaming:
KILL THEM ALL.
He stumbled, sword drawn, eyes blank.
And as the first Frostfang soldier reached him, he cut the man down.
In the real world, Rowena saw him through the chaos of battle, recognized him despite the black symbols on his armor.
Her scream tore through the wind: "Aldric!"
His eyes flickered — a brief crackle of recognition, gone as quickly as a star falling from the sky.
Rowena's heart shattered, but she refused to back away.
"Aldric, it's me!" she cried, voice breaking. "It's me!"
He faltered, sword lowering, confusion warring with the haze in his mind.
The White Lady's voice thundered through his thoughts: Obey!
He roared in agony, slamming the sword into the earth instead of striking Rowena.
The ground split, sending shockwaves through the ranks, and Rowena surged forward, hope blooming in her chest.
Aldric. Please, remember.
In the sky above, the moon broke through the clouds, a perfect crescent — watching, judging, forgiving.
Aldric's mind felt torn between two worlds, the prophecy crackling through his veins like fire.
He fell to his knees, breathing ragged, voice raw as he shouted to the heavens:
"WHO AM I?!"
And for a moment, in that trembling silence, he felt the answer stir inside him once more.