The nightmares returned with the full moon.
Cassian hadn't slept in two nights. Not well, at least. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw her. Wren—surrounded by flame, silver eyes glowing like a storm trapped in a bottle, lips parted in a spell that tore through bone and magic alike.
But it wasn't just her face that haunted him.
It was Veylan's.
The Shadow Wolf stood at her side in every dream—closer than Cassian ever dared be. Their shoulders touched, their power pulsed in rhythm. They moved like pieces carved from the same star.
Cassian always woke up then, drenched in sweat, jaw aching from how hard he'd been clenching it in sleep.
Tonight was no different.
He sat on the edge of his bed, heart thudding like a war drum. The Pack house was quiet, save for the low groan of wood and wind. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the windowsill. His hands shook as he picked it up.
He hadn't spoken to Wren in days—not since she'd come back to warn them. He hadn't told the Council, either. Not about the prophecy. Not about her vision.
And he certainly hadn't told them that he believed her.
Not yet.
Because part of him still hoped she was wrong. That she was delusional. That she wasn't slipping further into power that no wolf could control.
But the other part?
The other part watched the woods every night like a starving man, waiting for a single flicker of silver flame to break the dark.
And it hated Veylan for being the one beside her.
Wren, meanwhile, was thriving.
The shrine was no longer just a hiding place. It had become a sanctum. A training ground. A base of resistance.
She'd etched new wards into the stone walls—protective sigils fused with both witchcraft and shadow magic. They pulsed when someone entered the forest. They whispered names. They warned of ill intent.
Veylan stood across from her now, bare-chested, his body inked in old markings from battles long forgotten. He tossed a dagger from hand to hand.
"Again," he said. "Faster this time."
Wren took a breath, summoned the dagger from across the room, caught it mid-air, and twisted toward the invisible target at her left. A shadow construct—a wolf formed of dense smoke—lunged at her.
She dropped, rolled, and drove the blade straight into its throat.
The illusion burst into ash.
Veylan smiled. "You're ready."
She shook her head. "No. Not yet. I need to be more."
He stepped forward, gently brushing a fallen lock of hair from her face. "You're already more than they deserve."
There it was again—that flicker. The way he looked at her like she wasn't just power, but purpose.
And Wren didn't look away.
Something in her chest pulsed painfully. She thought she'd buried all the feelings Cassian's rejection had planted like rot in her ribs. But standing here, with a creature born of shadow and death, she felt seen in a way she never had before.
Veylan didn't flinch from her power.
He bowed to it.
"How did you survive your banishment?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated. "I didn't."
Her breath caught.
"I died," he said. "But not the way they think. I gave my life to seal a rift—one the Devourer had carved open between realms. My soul lingered, untethered. I became… this."
She reached out, touching the inked scars on his chest.
"You became a weapon."
His voice was low. "I became vengeance."
They stood there for a long moment, shadows curling around them like smoke.
Then the warning bell on the outer ward rang. A deep, metallic chime that meant only one thing.
A wolf had entered the forest.
Cassian didn't know why he came.
He told himself it was to check the wards. To ensure she hadn't cursed the Pack with some slow, creeping rot.
But when he crossed the border and saw the ancient shrine bathed in soft violet light, and her silhouette moving inside it like a queen pacing her palace, something primal twisted in his gut.
And when he stepped too close to the perimeter and found himself suddenly slammed into a tree by invisible magic—
He remembered why he hadn't come sooner.
Wren stood before him a moment later, barefoot, robe fluttering around her legs like storm-swept leaves. Her eyes weren't angry.
They were… disappointed.
"You're lucky I didn't let it gut you," she said coolly. "That ward is designed to kill first, ask questions never."
He stood, brushing dirt from his chest. "Charming."
"What do you want, Cassian?"
The question cut deeper than it should have.
"I came to talk."
"No," she said. "You came to look. To see what I've become. To see if I've turned into the monster you always feared."
He flinched.
"I came to see if you were safe."
Her laugh was short, sharp. "Now you care?"
"I've always cared."
"Then why did you let them cast me out?" Her voice cracked, just once. "Why didn't you fight for me?"
He had no answer.
Veylan appeared behind her, silent as always. His presence was shadow and silence and menace—directed solely at Cassian.
"Everything okay?" Veylan asked, placing a hand on Wren's shoulder.
Cassian stiffened.
Wren glanced back. "We're fine."
The possessiveness in Cassian's chest flared hot.
"She doesn't need you to guard her," he snapped.
"No," Veylan said smoothly. "But I want to."
The two males locked eyes.
The air shimmered between them like it might ignite. Magic and dominance, wolf and void, witch and war.
"Leave," Wren said, eyes on Cassian.
"Wren—"
"I said go."
For the second time, Cassian turned away.
And for the first time, he didn't think she'd ever look back.
That night, a scream shattered the woods.
A patrol wolf—Tomas—stumbled into the Pack's edge, his body torn open, skin gray with rot. He died before the healer could reach him.
Cassian stood over the corpse in silence. Beside him, Elder Korin paled.
"This isn't witchcraft," the elder said grimly.
"No," Cassian murmured. "It's worse."
They found no tracks. No scent. Only a brand burned into the trees nearby:
A serpent devouring its own tail.
The symbol of the Devourer.
Cassian's blood ran cold.
Wren had been right.
And they had no army. No plan. No Luna.
The Pack would fall if they didn't change that—and fast.
Back in the shrine, Wren couldn't sleep.
Veylan watched her pace, a shadow in the moonlight.
"You still feel him," he said.
She didn't deny it.
"But I don't belong to him anymore."
His eyes darkened. "No. You don't."
They stood close. Closer than they had before. Her hand brushed his. His magic pulsed in answer—slow, steady, yearning.
"I can't love you," she whispered.
"I didn't ask you to."
"But you do," she said.
He nodded once. "I do."
Her throat tightened. "You'll die for me."
He said nothing.
But they both knew he already had once.