Aria POV
The High City of the Council didn't smell like the forest. It smelled of bleached bone, ancient incense, and the stagnant rot of absolute power.
It sat atop the highest peak of the Inner Circle, a sprawling cathedral of ivory stone and gold leaf that looked down on the world with a cold, predatory indifference. To the common packs, this was the holy land. To me, it was just a target.
Gabriel walked beside me, his footsteps a heavy, rhythmic thrum against the white marble bridge. He had fully integrated the Black Lion now; the shadows around him didn't just flicker—they pulsed with a life of their own, devouring the morning light before it could touch his skin.
Behind us, a broken shadow dragged its feet. Logan.
He was a ghost in a man's skin. His white hair whipped in the mountain wind, and the translucent, glass-like scars on his face caught the sun, refracting it into jagged shards of silver and gold. He didn't speak. He didn't look up. He simply followed the pull of the silver wire, a hollow vessel for the two Primals he had died to protect.
« They're afraid, Aria, » the White Wolf whispered, her voice a sharp, crystalline echo. « I can smell the sour tang of their sweat through the ivory walls. They've spent ten thousand years pretending we were myths. Now, the myth is knocking on their door. »
"Let them be afraid," I murmured.
We reached the Great Gates—two massive slabs of solid silver engraved with the history of the werewolf race. History written by the victors. History that ended with the "extinction" of the Primals.
I didn't knock. I didn't wait for a herald.
I reached out and touched the silver surface. The metal felt warm, recognizing the bloodline of its creator. I closed my eyes and let the Primal fire—now laced with the golden hunger of the Phoenix—flow through my palms.
BOOM.
The gates didn't just open; they groaned as the silver liquefied under my touch, the metal running down the stone like tears. The heavy slabs slumped inward, clearing a path into the heart of the Council.
The Court of Kings
The throne room was a vast amphitheater of white stone. At the center sat the High Council—twelve Alphas of the highest rank, their red and gold robes shimmering in the light of a thousand candles.
And at the very top, on a throne of ivory and wolf-bone, sat my father.
Alpha Silas looked older than I remembered. The arrogance was still there, etched into the lines of his face, but his eyes were wide, tracking the silver-white glow that radiated from my skin.
"Aria," he said, his voice echoing through the silent chamber. It wasn't the voice of a father. It was the voice of a man trying to convince himself he still held the leash. "You've caused quite a disturbance. To slaughter our guards, to take the Southern Outpost... and now to bring this Rogue into our holiest sanctum."
He looked at Gabriel with a disgust that made the shadows around us hiss.
"I am not a daughter of the Silver Moon anymore, Silas," I said. My voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of the mountain. "I am the White Wolf. And I haven't come here to talk."
"You come here with a monster at your side and a broken traitor at your heels," one of the Council Alphas shouted, standing up. "You think because you found a bit of old magic that you can defy the laws of the Déesse?"
I looked at him. I didn't move a muscle, but I let my aura expand—just a fraction.
The councilor was slammed back into his seat by a wall of silver pressure. The candles in the room flickered and died, leaving only the luminescent glow of my eyes and Gabriel's void.
"The laws you follow were written to cage me," I said, walking toward the dais. "You call Gabriel a monster? You branded him, cursed him, and tried to turn him into a dog because you were terrified of the Abyss. And my father..."
I stopped at the base of the ivory throne. Silas looked down at me, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests.
"You rejected me because I was 'weak'," I whispered, the word tasting like ash. "You watched Logan break my soul and you did nothing but sign the papers. Tell me, Father... who is the weak one now?"
The Last Stand
Silas stood up, his Alpha aura erupting in a violent surge of crimson power. "I am the High Alpha! I am the blood of the Moon!"
"You are a lie," I countered.
Silas lunged. He didn't shift; he moved with the desperate, jagged speed of a man who knew he was outmatched. He drew a blade of pure silver—the Fang of the First—and swung it at my throat.
I didn't dodge.
I caught the blade with my bare hand. The silver hissed against my palm, trying to bite into the Primal flesh, but it couldn't. I was the source. I was the metal. I was the moon.
I twisted the blade. It shattered like cheap glass, the shards falling to the floor with a musical chime.
Silas gasped, his eyes filling with a sudden, primal terror. I reached out and grabbed his throat, my fingers sinking into the thick muscle.
"The Silver Moon is over," I said.
Behind me, the Council Alphas surged forward, their claws extended, their wolves roaring for blood.
"Gabriel," I commanded.
Gabriel didn't wait. He let the Black Lion out.
The shadows in the room didn't just move; they rose. Gargantuan, feline shapes made of abyssal smoke tore through the Council ranks. It wasn't a fight; it was a harvest. The "elite" Alphas of the world were tossed around like ragdolls, their screams muffled by the void.
I turned back to my father. He was struggling, his hands clawing at mine, his face turning a dark, bruised purple.
"Please..." he wheezed.
"I gave you my love for eighteen years, Silas," I said, my silver eyes burning into his. "I gave you my loyalty. And you gave me exile. Now, I give you the truth."
I let the Phoenix's fire flow into my hand.
Silas didn't burn. He didn't scream. Just like Marek, he began to change. The red of his robes, the flesh of his neck, the bone of his skull—it all began to vitrify.
I watched the life fade from his eyes as they turned to hard, unblinking glass. I held him until he was nothing but a statue of translucent crystal, a monument to a father who was never there.
I let go. The statue hit the marble floor and shattered into ten thousand pieces.
The New Dawn
Silence returned to the High Hall, broken only by the heavy breathing of the few Councilors Gabriel had left alive. They were huddled on the floor, their eyes fixed on the shards of their High Alpha.
Gabriel walked up the steps and stood beside me. He looked at the ivory throne, then at me. His abyssal aura was calm now, a dark mantle that felt like home.
"The throne is empty, Aria," he said, his voice a low, reverent rumble.
I looked at the ivory chair. It was beautiful. It was expensive. And it was a cage.
I turned to Logan. He was standing at the entrance of the hall, his dual-colored eyes watching the destruction with a hollow, religious awe.
"Logan," I called out.
He walked forward, his footsteps echoing in the tomb-like silence. He knelt at the base of the dais, his white hair brushing the marble.
"My Queen," he whispered.
"This chair is for those who rule through fear and blood," I said, looking at the broken Council. "I am not a High Alpha. I am the Primal. And I don't need a throne to stand above you."
I raised my hand and let the silver-gold fire explode from my palm.
The ivory throne didn't just break; it vanished. The wood, the bone, and the gold were incinerated in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but a scorch mark on the floor.
I turned to the surviving Alphas.
"Go back to your packs," I said, my voice carrying to every corner of the High City. "Tell them the age of the Council is over. Tell them the Primals have returned. There are no more masters. There are no more slaves. There is only the Moon and the Abyss."
I looked at Gabriel, and for the first time in my life, the weight in my chest was gone. I wasn't the rejected mate. I wasn't the exiled daughter.
I was Aria.
I took Gabriel's hand, our powers entwining—silver light and black shadow—forming a perfect, lethal eclipse.
"Let's go home," I said.
We walked out of the High Hall, past the shards of my father, past the broken laws of my ancestors, and into a world that was finally, beautifully, ours to burn.