"Not all Alphas raise armies. Some only need to raise a hand."
---
Selene stared up at the figure on the ridge.
Wind tugged at his tattered black cloak. His face remained hidden in shadow, but the weight of his presence pressed down like a mountain. He didn't shout. He didn't growl. Yet his silence screamed louder than any war cry.
Behind her, the forest smoldered. The bodies of dead wolves—some hers, some theirs—steamed in the moonlight.
And yet, all she could see was him.
The one who beckoned.
> "Run," the voice whispered again.
"Not yet," she answered inwardly.
---
Three more Ravenscourge wolves closed in.
One was massive—twice her size. One was fast—already a blur through the trees. The last had no eyes—only burnt sockets filled with unnatural darkness.
They attacked in sync.
Selene didn't block. She called.
The phantom behind her shrieked, a spectral cry of wrath, and exploded outward like a blast of black mist. Two of the wolves staggered, gripping their heads.
Selene dashed forward.
She jumped on the fast one mid-run, driving her blade into its shoulder. He spun and threw her off, but not before she sliced through the joint of his arm. He screamed.
She rolled and came up face to face with the eyeless one.
It grinned.
"Found you," he hissed.
And then—
BOOM.
The forest floor rattled.
Something massive landed behind them.
Not walked.
Landed.
The phantom behind Selene hissed and dissolved into black wisps.
The eyeless wolf froze.
Selene turned.
And saw him.
---
The figure had descended the ridge.
Now he stood barely ten feet away.
He wasn't cloaked anymore. The tattered robe fell away, revealing a form carved from shadow and steel—muscles coiled like ropes, skin etched with black scars that shimmered with red light.
His eyes...
They weren't wolf.
They weren't human.
They were moons—full, white, and bleeding at the edges.
Selene stepped back, instincts screaming.
"Don't move," the eyeless wolf whispered to her, now trembling.
"Why?"
"Because he's moving."
---
The man raised a single clawed hand.
And closed it.
The eyeless wolf's body twisted violently—bones snapping inward, ribs crushing his own lungs.
He collapsed without a sound.
Selene didn't even scream.
She couldn't.
The air itself felt frozen. Not cold. Held still.
The man turned to her.
He tilted his head, studying her like one might study a strange beast behind a cage.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"You howl like the old blood."
His voice was deep. Ruined. Like it had been torn out and stitched back together with fury.
Selene tried to speak—but the words died in her throat.
He knelt before her, not like a servant—but like a predator watching prey before the final strike.
>"What's your name, little moon?"
"…Selene."
A smile—thin, dangerous—tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Selene," he repeated. "Good. It'll be easier for the world to remember what it lost after I kill you."