Zetulah; Queen of wolves

(Princess zetulah viridian POV) Blood steams in the cold air. It drips from Fenrik’s mouth—thick, dark, deliberate. Each drop a dying heartbeat, each beat a prayer slipping into the snow. His breath hitches, broken and rattling. Like wind through trees that forgot they were ever alive. He should be shifting. He should be standing. But he’s on his knees. An Emberclaw soldier grips his hair, yanks his head back like a trophy. The moon slips along a blood-slick blade. The night reeks of iron and ash. Wood burns. Fur burns. My brother burns. I can’t move. My body begs—Run. Shift. Scream. But my mind’s stuck. As if belief would shatter everything. Fenrik’s eyes find mine. Green. The green of our mother’s eyes. The green of freedom. Of laughter. Of summers we’ll never get back. No fear lives in them. Only truth. The blade arcs. It slices his throat. But he doesn’t fall. Not yet. He jerks forward. Hands claw the snow, reaching—not for escape, but for me. A boot drives him down. A sword drives in deeper. He twitches. Once. Twice. Then stillness. His mouth opens. A last breath staggers out, wet and useless. No words. Just silence. And that’s when I break. The world implodes. My blood becomes thunder. My heart a war drum. My eyes blur until all that’s left is his hand, limp and open in the snow. Something ancient tears out of me. Not a scream. Not a howl. A name. His name. Torn from the bone. They turn. Red eyes. Glinting steel. Smirking mouths slick with my brother’s blood. They see me. And I see them. I run. But not far. A hand grabs me from behind—steel-hard around my waist. I twist, half-wolf already— "Quiet." The voice is low. Familiar. Viridian armor. Ronan. His face is blood and shadow. But his amber eyes blaze. He’s alive. Somehow. "Let me go," I spit. "I have to—" His hand clamps over my mouth. "If you die, House Viridian dies." A howl splits the air. Close. Closer. The Emberclaws are hunting. I nod. He lets go. We run. The forest swallows us whole. Trees blur. Frost bites. Smoke chokes. Behind us, home burns. I taste blood. My own. I bite my scream. There will be time to mourn. If we survive. A growl cuts through the trees. Low. Too close. Ronan shields me. Sword ready. A shape steps into the clearing. Not a beast. Not a nightmare. Kaelith Emberclaw. His golden armor drinks the Blood Moon. His red eyes don’t glow—they judge. His sword stays sheathed. "Go," he says. Ronan tenses. "What?" Kaelith stares at me. "Run." He knows me. Princess of the house he just gutted. He should end me. But he doesn’t. My hands ball into fists. "Why?" His face shifts. Not pity. Not mercy. Regret. "You’ll understand soon." Ronan grabs my wrist. He pulls. We flee. But I don’t look away. Not from Kaelith. Not as trees veil him in shadow. His voice echoes. "You’ll understand soon." I don’t care. Because House Emberclaw made one mistake. They left a Viridian princess breathing. And I will not waste that breath. I will not forget. I will not forgive. Their ruin is written. In frost. In blood. In the broken howl of a sister who was never meant to survive. I will carve my brother’s name into every grave. And I will not stop. Not until the last Emberclaw falls. ---------------------------------- I swore I would bring them to ruin. But first, I have to survive the s*******r. Smoke chokes the sky—thick, heavy, alive. The screams of dying men pierce through the black haze, sharper than steel, louder than war drums. Ash sticks to my skin like memory, refusing to be forgotten. The scent of burning flesh lingers in my throat like guilt. Taron runs ahead—tattered armor clinging to his frame, sword slick with blood. He’s too far. I can’t reach him in time. Not with the Emberclaw beasts closing in behind us, their red eyes gleaming through the smoke like curses made flesh. Steel flashes. Red eyes gleam. “Ronan!” Too late. They cut him down before he even turns. His sword slips from his fingers like a dying breath. His knees fold. His body hits the mud with a sound I will never forget. The ground drinks him like he’s nothing. My scream curdles in my throat. I swallow it. I can’t afford sound. I can’t afford weakness. Not now. Something snaps inside me. I become something else. My claws tear through flesh. I don’t remember shifting—I only know the wet crunch of bone beneath my grip, the sting of steel that doesn’t bite deep enough, the rush of blood that tastes like vengeance. The Emberclaw soldier screams. It ends quickly. I spin. My whole body tenses like a struck chord. They’re coming. The Emberclaws slide through the ruins like smoke with teeth. Quiet. Measured. But the air grows tight with them—like the space around me knows what they are. Their claws scrape against stone—high, sharp, like bones breaking in the dark. I hear their breath first—soft, hot. Then the growl. Fire, licking at their fingers, tasting the air for blood. My heart pounds a brutal rhythm in my chest. I choke it down. No time for fear. I’ve already lost everything. I will not be next. Then—another sound. Not theirs. Deeper. Older. A growl that rumbles through the stone and into me. It wraps around my spine like it owns me. This isn’t Emberclaw. It’s worse. The battlefield stirs. The flames shift—not with wind, but as if something pulls them. The air thickens. The world stills. Like the sky itself holds its breath. Something steps out of the dark. A shadow, but alive. Moving like spilled ink across a page that wants to curl away. My breath catches. My pulse skips. The fighting blurs. The screams grow distant. All that exists is him. His presence bends the space around him. The world strains to hold him, like he’s too real for it. Then—his eyes find mine. And the universe stops.