Ash and Antlers
The road to Ridgefall was no road at all.
Where once a path had wound through the mountains, war and time had reduced it to a trail of bones and ash. Trees bore scorch marks like old wounds, and the snow that lingered clung to the forest floor in streaks, refusing to fall clean. Every step Mira and Alaric took was measured, not just for safety but for memory—the ground here remembered every atrocity.
"This was one of the first sanctuaries," Mira murmured as they moved past a collapsed stone arch entwined with thornroots. "When the First Dreamers fled the purge, they gathered here. The Council burned it three winters later. But the root of Ridgefall lies deeper."
Alaric paused to crouch at a shallow stream, cupping water to his lips. "You knew this way?"
"In my dreams," she replied softly. "They showed me maps burned in the fire. Paths that exist only in memory now. We follow the ones the wind doesn't speak of."
By nightfall, they reached the foot of the Ashweald—a forest of black-barked trees grown over ruins, where each trunk pulsed faintly with residual magic. It was said that those who entered the heart of the Ashweald without purpose lost their names before they lost their way. And yet Mira walked forward with quiet certainty.
In silence, Alaric followed.
Beneath the canopy, sound vanished. There were no birds, no rustle of small creatures. Only the low, steady thrum of the trees themselves. It wasn't long before Mira stopped at a monolithic antler arch embedded in stone. Carvings glowed along its frame: crescent moons, spirals, and the ancient symbol for dream-bond.
"This is one of the Gates," she said. "To enter Ridgefall's heart, we must pass together—not as warrior and seer, not as Alpha and witness—but as something more unified."
Alaric stepped beside her, unsure. "Then what are we?"
She turned her gaze to him, not with softness, but with resolve. "We are the convergence. I am what has been buried. You are what has endured. Together we are what must rise."
She pressed her palm to the center of the gate. The stone responded not with sound but silence so profound it felt like pressure. Alaric followed, and in a blink, the forest around them shimmered—and shifted.
The world turned silver.
They stood now in a glade unlike anything Alaric had seen. Trees bore leaves of twilight color, and water flowed uphill in thin rivulets that whispered names. Fireflies danced like old souls returning to play. Before them stood a small village cradled in the heart of the woods, half-submerged in vine and time. Ridgefall.
From the shadows, wolves emerged—not feral, but regal. Not men, not beasts. True shifters, half-bound in human grace, cloaked in woven spiritcloth and ancient rites. They stared in silence, weapons sheathed but hands poised.
The tallest among them stepped forward. Her eyes glowed amber with age. Her hair was braided with bones. "You come wearing the scent of the Ebon Spire," she said to Alaric. "That place burns lies into its stone."
He met her gaze. "And I burn for truth."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "You wear a crest of a slaughtered line. Speak your name."
"Alaric Vael. Blood of the Hollow Vale. Son of the stormed house. Last Alpha of Ironfang."
A silence followed.
Then the woman knelt. And one by one, the others followed.
Mira stepped beside him. "They remember."
Later that night, around a flame woven not of fire but of dreamlight, Mira revealed the memory spheres, letting them speak in soundless echoes for the elders of Ridgefall. Faces twisted in pain. Gasps. Then silence.
"We knew," said the old woman—High Seer Athis. "But knowledge without proof is like wind without shape. You have brought shape."
Alaric leaned forward. "We need more than witness. We need alliance. The Council prepares a purge. They'll silence the world again if we do not act."
Athis studied him. "And what would you have us do?"
"Let Ridgefall rise," Mira answered. "Let the dream return not as myth, but movement. Call the old packs. The wandering kin. Call those who remember what the world once was before the blood tide."
And for the first time in decades, a horn sounded in the Vale of Ridgefall.
In the far distance, wolves stirred from slumber. Travelers lifted their heads. Old runes began to flicker on stone. A call older than law, older than kings—older even than the moon—echoed across the realm.
It said: The dream lives.
And it will no longer kneel.