Lana woke to the feeling of heat pulsing beneath her skin. Not feverish, not burning, but insistent—like something alive, just under the surface, humming its own language through her bones. She sat up in the makeshift bunk, breath coming short. The morning light didn't feel like morning. It felt charged. Waiting.
Nyx was already awake, her tablet propped against her knees, fingers tapping data lines without that usual blank expression. She looked up, blinking slowly. "Your core's running hotter," she said, her voice easy. "But you're not sick. Your body's adapting."
Lana rubbed her palms together. They tingled. "To what?"
"To the signal," Nyx said, setting her tablet down. "You're not just receiving anymore. You're starting to broadcast. Like a beacon."
Kieran came into the tent, barefoot and shirtless, his skin still damp from a cold rinse. He looked from Lana to Nyx, his brows low. "She okay?"
Nyx gave a nod. "Better than okay. Just… different."
Lana looked at her hands. "You mean I'm becoming one of them?"
"No." Nyx tilted her head. "You're becoming her. The Crownless."
Lana blinked. "Why do you keep calling me that?"
Nyx paused. "That name—it's everywhere now. Factions, old cultists, even rogue tech-nets that haven't broadcasted in years. The moment you activated that shard, signals started pinging from hidden servers, encrypted channels, underground forums. They all said the same thing: The Crownless has walked."
Lana felt the words crawl down her spine.
"It's not just a name," Nyx said. "It's a title. One Veliora left behind. A Queen with no bloodline. No throne. A Queen chosen by signal, not legacy. Everyone's been waiting to see who'd fit it."
---
Across the sea, in the fractured coastal ruins of Mogador—a coastal city in the western region of Morocco—the gathering had already begun. Packs, splinters, and outlaw clans had been converging for days—drawn by the old relics and the new whispers.
They surrounded the central platform, a stone slab stained by centuries of battle. At its center stood Koja, Alpha of the Ash-Blooded. Tall, fur streaked with gray, his chest bare beneath the ceremonial armor crusted with dust and memory.
In his hand was the old Queen's totem—a blade too thin to cut flesh but sharp enough to divide allegiance.
"She has come," Koja said, voice like gravel dragged through stone. "The Crownless breathes. The blood confirms it. The shards have stirred."
A chorus of mutters followed. Some nods. Some clenched fists.
Then came the dissension.
From the northern flank, six alphas broke from the crowd, stepping into the arena with weapons drawn.
"We serve no bloodless Queen," one growled. "Let her crawl back to her tomb."
Koja didn't reply.
He moved.
The first alpha charged, teeth bared. Koja met him halfway—sidestepped, slammed a knee into his ribs, and twisted his neck with a crack that echoed like thunder.
The second came at his back. Koja spun, claws flashing, slicing deep across the alpha's chest, ribs exposed. He didn't pause. He grabbed the third by the throat and hurled him into a pillar, the impact spraying bone against stone.
Blood hit the ground in splashes.
The fourth alpha tried to flank. Koja crouched low, grabbed a handful of dirt, and flung it upward. As the challenger blinked, Koja's claws buried into his stomach and ripped upward.
Then the fifth and sixth moved in together—smarter. One feinted high, the other swept low. Koja blocked the high strike, but the lower blow caught his ribs hard enough to knock him off balance. He staggered back, blood trailing from his mouth. The crowd gasped.
Koja stood still for a second, then smiled.
He calmly closed his eyes. When they reopened, they were blazing yellow.
His body shifted—not all at once, but smoothly, terrifyingly controlled. Muscles lengthened, spine arched. Fur spread across his arms, thick and coarse. His hands twisted into claws long enough to carve bone.
The fifth alpha charged again.
Koja caught him mid-air and slammed him into the ground so hard the stone cracked. Before the sixth could retreat, Koja was already there, moving with unnatural speed. He didn't roar. He didn't need to. He struck with precision, disabling without killing, asserting total dominance.
The fifth alpha groaned and dropped his blade. The sixth fell to his knees.
Koja stood over them, breathing slow.
"This is not about loyalty to a name," he said, voice deep and calm. "This is about survival. Without her, everything crumbles. The bloodlines scatter. The balance ends. The Crownless is not our Queen because of power. She is our Queen because without her, we die."
The remaining alphas bowed. The crowd followed.
---
Back at camp, night had fallen soft and quiet. The stars blinked through a haze of cloud. Lana sat just outside the tent, legs folded under her, staring into the dark. Kieran joined her, brushing against her side as he sat.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
She huffed a laugh. "I keep asking myself if this is what Evelyn saw coming. If she knew I'd end up like this."
Kieran reached into his pocket and pulled out something small—a folded photo, edges worn. He placed it in her palm.
It was her. Taken in Noctis, from behind a glass wall. Her hair tied up, hunched over a vending machine. A snapshot from her first day.
"I took that the day we met," he said. "You looked tired. And stubborn. And like you were going to yell at that vending machine until it gave you what you wanted."
She stared down at the image.
"I was hungry."
"You were alive," he said. "And even then, you didn't give up. That's who you are. That's who you're still becoming. Crown or no crown."
He leaned in, brushing his mouth over hers, slow and certain.
"You scare me sometimes," he said. "But not because of what you're turning into. Because I can't imagine what I'd be without you."
She kissed him back.
Not to claim him.
To remind herself that she was still human enough to feel.
---
In the deep expanse of the Sahara, beneath forgotten rock and failed temples, another Queen shard stirred.
It did not scream. It did not smile.
It listened.
Lana's blood, now active, had become a living signal—reaching farther than anything since Veliora fell.
The shard responded with a pulse of its own. Cold. Sharp. Like an answer.
And somewhere nearby, something else began to wake up.