Storm clouds churned low over the hills of Eldara as twilight devoured the last of the sun. Maddox Vale stood atop the stone balcony of Blackthorn Keep, the ancient stronghold of his lineage, watching the first flicker of torches flare to life in the courtyard below. The wind whispered secrets—words only an Alpha could hear—carried from the north, brushing past his ears like ghost fingers.
His wolf stirred beneath his skin, unsettled.
Something—or someone—had breached his territory with silk-gloved boldness.
Inside the great hall, the scent arrived before she did. Subtle, unfamiliar. Jasmine kissed with flame. A scent foreign to these woods but not unwelcome. He turned just as the heavy doors creaked open and the woman stepped into the light.
Selene Noir.
She wore a long, wine-dark cloak, its hood shadowing her face, and beneath it, a form-fitting corseted gown embroidered in silver thread that shimmered like spell markings. Her boots were of doeskin, silent against the ancient stone. A polished black cane touched the ground beside her—more elegance than necessity. She moved like royalty who'd learned to wield danger in heels.
Maddox's gaze narrowed.
"I don't remember summoning you."
"You didn't." Her voice was satin over steel. "But I came all the same."
He took a slow step down from the dais, arms folded behind his back. "Strange, then, that the guards didn't sense your arrival."
"I passed the wards," she said calmly. "Which tells me your enchantments are as outdated as your diplomacy."
A low growl rumbled in his chest, but it wasn't fury—it was interest.
"My name," she added, "is Selene Noir. I represent a small circle of investors—independent and discreet. We offer partnerships to entities that… intrigue us."
He gave a humorless smile. "I'm not for sale."
She tilted her head. "Nor am I here to buy you. But your northern lands have been bleeding silver for decades. Your border packs resent your authority. Your advisors squabble like drunk crows. Your people need something stronger than dominance. They need vision."
"And you've brought me a vision?"
She stepped closer. Her cloak parted just enough to reveal a pendant resting against her skin—a crescent moon carved of bone, ancient and cracked, pulsing faintly.
"I've brought an offer. And a warning."
Maddox's eyes locked onto the pendant. The symbol of the Crescent Covenant. Old magic. Forbidden since the Fall.
His voice darkened. "Where did you get that?"
She smiled. "You're not the only one with bloodlines and secrets, King."
His wolf surged forward then, testing her scent, clawing beneath his skin for more. There was something in her… layered. Like dusk built on dusk. Familiar and strange. Fire and frost.
Selene turned, striding to the fireplace where a map of the Vale territories hung. Her gloved hand hovered over the western expanse near Ashmere.
"The rot begins here," she said quietly. "Your enemy is not merely within your gates. It's already beneath your floorboards."
He watched her like a blade watches a throat.
"Speak plainly."
She met his gaze. "Your brother's widow has been seen crossing into the Wasting Woods. She speaks to things not born of this realm. If the rumors are true, she's not grieving—she's plotting. And not alone."
Maddox's spine stiffened.
The Widow Vale. The woman who once adored his brother and now whispered to shadows?
He turned away to mask the flicker of rage in his eyes. "Why would you care?"
"Because chaos breeds opportunity," she answered. "And because I believe you're the only one capable of stopping what's coming."
He stalked toward her. "Then say what it is you want."
Selene's expression didn't change. "A place at your table. Access to your court. A voice, nothing more."
Maddox stopped just shy of her. "Women who speak softly with poison-dipped tongues rarely want 'nothing more.'"
Selene raised her chin, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. "Then take it as a test. Let me prove my usefulness. You can throw me to the wolves if I fail."
He leaned in, breath warm against her ear. "I am the wolves."
But even as he said it, something inside him burned.
Not anger.
Recognition.
His wolf stirred again—louder this time.
Fated.
The word wasn't welcome.
He turned his back to her and faced the fire.
"You'll stay in the South Tower," he said at last. "You'll be watched."
"I expect nothing less."
He tossed her a key, ancient and blackened with age. "Your quarters haven't been used in years. If the shadows grow teeth, I suggest you bite first."
Selene caught the key midair and dipped into a low, mocking curtsy. "How chivalrous of you."
Maddox didn't respond. His thoughts were already elsewhere.
The Wasting Woods.
The Widow.
The pendant around Selene Noir's neck that should have been burned centuries ago.
Something was unraveling. And the thread had her scent.
-
Later that night, Selene slipped into her room under the veiled protection of moonlight. Alone, she unfastened her cloak and drew a breath that felt heavier than the air around her.
Magdalene Rivers stared at her reflection in the mirror, the mask of Selene Noir melting from her eyes like wax from a candle.
The fire crackled behind her, casting her silhouette against the walls like a specter.
She pulled out a worn slip of parchment from a hidden fold in her cloak. Symbols scrawled in blood ink danced across it—markings from a prophecy lost to time. One that spoke of the King of Wolves. And the woman destined to bring about his ruin.
Or his redemption.
Her fingers hovered over Maddox's name, written in her hand.
He didn't know.
Not yet.
But he would.
Soon.
She tucked the prophecy away and whispered a spell that sealed her door with runes only she could see. Then, turning to the balcony, she let the night air sweep over her like a baptism.
Below, wolves howled in the distance.
Calling.
Warning.
Watching.
And from the shadows of the Wasting Woods, a figure stepped forward, cloaked in thorns, eyes aglow like embers—watching the South Tower from afar.
"I see you," the figure whispered. "Little moon, little liar."
As the figure vanished into the trees, a raven landed on Selene's balcony rail. Its eyes were not black—but silver. Watching. Waiting. And when it opened its beak… it spoke her name.
"Magdalene."