The raven did not caw.
It spoke.
Magdalene's breath caught, half-masked by the wind curling around her tower balcony. The bird's silver eyes shimmered like moonlight on still water, ancient and unblinking. Its feathers glistened in unnatural sheen—neither black nor grey, but the color of smoke just before it burns.
"Magdalene," it said again, in a voice that sounded like a dozen whispers speaking in unison.
She stepped back cautiously, cloak wrapped tight around her. Her spell-wards pulsed faintly in the stones around the frame. No ordinary creature could have reached this balcony—certainly no messenger of flesh and bone.
"Who sent you?" she asked, voice low and steady.
The raven tilted its head. "Not who. What."
A chill slithered down her spine.
This wasn't a beast.
It was a mouthpiece.
Of what—she dared not guess.
Before she could utter another word, the raven burst into cinders, leaving behind a single black feather that twisted in the air and landed gently in her palm. But the moment she touched it, a vision flared across her mind's eye.
A flash of the Wasting Woods…
A circle of hooded figures chanting in a dead tongue…
A hand raised, holding a bone dagger dripping with moonlight…
A name, scrawled in ash: Maddox.
Then darkness.
Magdalene stumbled back against the balcony door, gasping.
"Already?" she whispered. "It's starting this soon?"
She had counted on weeks. Months even. But the prophecy's gears were turning faster than she'd foreseen.
Someone else was moving the pieces.
And they weren't waiting.
Down in the heart of Blackthorn Keep, Maddox Vale stalked through the war corridor, torches hissing along the damp walls. His Beta, Corwin Thorn, followed a few steps behind, ever watchful, ever skeptical.
"You allowed her to stay?" Corwin said finally.
Maddox didn't answer at first. His fingers were laced behind his back, jaw tight.
"She came cloaked in secrets," Maddox replied. "She carries Crescent magic, speaks in riddles, and walks into a den of wolves without trembling. Would you not be curious too?"
Corwin frowned. "Curiosity kills more than cats in this realm."
"She has eyes where we do not. She knew about Ashmere. About the Widow."
"Or she caused it," Corwin snapped. "We know nothing of her."
Maddox stopped and turned. "Which is why I intend to find out everything."
A pause.
"She unsettles the men," Corwin added. "Some say she arrived without crossing the gate. Others claim she whispered the bloodhounds into silence."
"She is a mystery," Maddox said. "And a useful one—until proven otherwise."
He resumed walking, but his mind wasn't with Corwin anymore.
It was with her.
Selene Noir. The way she stood in the firelight, as if the flames obeyed her. The way her scent seemed to bend—like old smoke and something half-remembered. His wolf hadn't stopped pacing since she arrived.
Fated. Dangerous. Familiar.
But from where?
In the candlelit chamber of the South Tower, Magdalene lit a fresh stick of sage and whispered an old incantation to cleanse the vision's residue. The raven's warning had shaken her more than she would admit, even to herself.
She knelt before a makeshift altar carved into the stone floor—etched with lunar runes, sigils of protection, and a personal relic: a single wolf fang, white as winter.
It had belonged to her brother.
The first life Maddox Vale ever took.
"I swore I'd see it through, Elijah," she whispered, pressing the fang to her heart. "For your sake. For all of them."
She tucked the fang back beneath her bodice and stood.
This place, Blackthorn Keep, had seen too much blood. Too many forgotten ghosts still wandered these halls. And now, Selene Noir would use it. Shape it. Reforge it to her purpose.
Even if her hands trembled behind her mask.
Even if her soul screamed every time she looked into the eyes of the man she planned to destroy.
Later that evening, the Keep hosted an unusual gathering. A diplomatic feast—at least, in name. The long table had been laid in the Ironwood Hall, its silver-rimmed plates polished, its goblets filled with spiced mead.
Selene, cloaked in deep emeralds tonight, took her seat to Maddox's left.
It hadn't been offered.
She simply claimed it.
He said nothing.
But his eyes stayed on her far longer than propriety allowed.
Around them, the lords and envoys of nearby packs raised toasts and traded pleasantries. But the air beneath their cheer was tight. Tense.
Especially when a messenger burst into the hall, blood on his coat.
"Your Majesty!" he shouted. "The northern outpost… it's been breached!"
The hall fell into silence.
Maddox stood. "By who?"
The messenger stammered. "Not who—what. Something moved through the mists. Took out the runes. The guards said they heard chanting."
Chanting.
Selene's spine stiffened.
Maddox's gaze darkened like a stormcloud about to split.
"Sound the war horns. Lock the Keep." His voice rang like steel. "No one leaves. No one enters. Until I say otherwise."
As the guard turned to obey, Maddox's hand caught Selene's wrist beneath the table. Not roughly. But not gently either.
"You knew this was coming," he said in a whisper meant for her alone.
She met his stare evenly. "I told you. You have rot beneath your walls."
"You speak like a prophet," he said, tone sharp.
"Maybe I am," she murmured. "Maybe I'm the reckoning you invited in."
She stood and glided from the hall, every eye tracking her departure.
Behind her, Maddox felt it again—that strange pull, like fate pressing its thumb into his chest. His wolf clawed forward, not in warning—but in need.
He turned to Corwin. "Bring me the Crescent tomes. All of them. Tonight."
Corwin hesitated. "They were sealed under High Order decree—"
"I am the High Order now," Maddox snapped. "Break the seals."
And as Corwin vanished down the corridor, Maddox stared toward the South Tower window… where a shadow moved behind the glass.
Selene.
Watching.
Waiting.
Plotting?
Hours later, the Keep had grown still, the fires low. Selene sat cross-legged on the floor of her chamber, candlelight flickering across the prophecy parchment.
She traced one line with her fingertip, over and over.
When the silver king takes the flame-born queen, the realm shall shatter or be reborn in blood.
She wasn't sure if she was the queen in that line.
She wasn't sure he was the king.
But something was coming.
And tonight proved it.
A knock came at her door—soft, deliberate.
She slid to her feet, careful, silent, and approached.
"Who is it?" she called.
A pause.
Then a voice.
Low. Male. Familiar.
"Maddox."
Her pulse skipped. She'd locked her door with four wards.
No one should've been able to get this close.
"Why?" she asked, lips brushing the wood. "To interrogate me further?"
"To ask a question."
She hesitated, then unlatched the door—but left the wards intact. A faint blue shimmer flickered as Maddox stepped through them.
He paused midstride, feeling it.
"Wards?"
"A girl's got to protect herself," she said lightly.
He stared at her. "You knew the northern breach would happen."
"I suspected," she said. "The prophecy isn't exact. Time's a slippery thing."
He didn't ask how she knew of prophecies.
Instead, he stepped closer.
"Who are you, really?"
Her lips parted—but the answer didn't come.
Because just then, the candle blew out on its own.
The raven was back.
But this time, it wasn't alone.
It perched on the ledge—and behind it, standing in a gust of black wind, was a woman with hollow eyes and bark for skin.
She raised a hand, and a tendril of night slipped into the room.
Selene screamed something in a forgotten language and hurled a sigil at the intruder.
Maddox's wolf burst to the surface.
But the woman vanished.
Only the raven remained, its eyes gleaming.
It croaked a final word.
"Ashmere."
As Maddox reached for Selene — demanding answers — the prophecy parchment on her desk caught fire by itself, curling to ash… leaving only one line untouched:
The wolf must bleed… before he remembers who he is.