Bound By Rejection

Chapter 10: The Prophecy Vision

Darkness swallowed her whole.

But this was no ordinary night. This wasn’t sleep born of exhaustion or the heavy haze of wolfsbane. This was weight, heavy and oppressive, pressing in on her chest, a thick, endless void woven not from night, but from memory, from grief, from divine silence. It wrapped around her like a second skin, soft as ash, isolating her from the biting cold of the stone and the constant, throbbing agony of the mate bond.

She floated, unmoored. Her broken, poisoned body was somewhere far below, still chained in the mountain cell. But here, in the in-between, she felt nothing. No hunger. No rage. No pain.

Was this the end?

Then, a hum began in the marrow of the world. Low. Steady. The sound of something awakening.

And then: Light.

Blinding. Silver. Violent.

It didn't pierce the darkness; it tore through it. A blade of radiance split the void from crown to root, cutting the air open with divine precision. Lyra gasped, raising phantom hands to shield her eyes, but the light wasn’t fire, it was moonlight, molten and clean, washing away the shadows of the dungeon.

When the brilliance dimmed, she stood barefoot on the ruin.

A vast plain stretched in all directions, cracked and scorched, the earth blackened to charcoal. It smelled of smoke and ash and something old: blood and prophecy. The sky above her churned, no sun or stars visible, only the bruised, violent purple of a perpetual twilight.

In the center of the destruction, two figures stood apart.

The air shifted, and Lyra suddenly knew the landscape. This was the Glass Field, the mythical origin point of the werewolf race, where the gods supposedly laid the first curse.

She turned to the figures.

The first was a massive, incandescent White Wolf, pure snow-white fur shimmering with the same silver moonlight that filled the sky. But it was not perfect. Deep claw marks marred its flank, and its eyes burned with a terrifying, untamed fire-red. Upon its head, resting precariously, was a crown woven from black, charred thorns that gave off smoke instead of scent. This was her wolf. Purified. Scarred. Claimed.

Standing opposite the White Wolf was a figure in human form, draped in shadow and steel.

Kael.

He wasn’t wearing his Alpha leathers. He was clad in armor etched with unrecognizable, twisting runes, dark, chaotic, and vaguely familiar. His body was tense, hunched, and covered in grime that looked less like dirt and more like shadow. His face was drawn and pale, his amber eyes burning with a desperate, self-destructive light. He held a sword, its blade pointed at the ground, but he looked less like a warrior and more like a prisoner of his own stance.

He was the Alpha, the fated mate, but here, in the face of the White Wolf, he was just a man, lost and fighting a war he had already lost.

Lyra felt the mate bond, now a screaming, agonizing connection, suddenly flood with his internal fear. It wasn't fear of defeat, but fear of her. Fear of the White Wolf, of the fire, of the crown. He saw his downfall, and it was her.

He’s afraid I’ll kill him.

Lyra moved toward him, a phantom drawn to her living, breathing pain.

“Kael!” she cried out, her voice echoing strangely, not her own, but layered with the ancient, raw strength of the Goddess.

He looked up, and his gaze locked onto hers, past the White Wolf, past the ruin. He saw her, the chained, broken Lyra. And in his eyes, she saw it all: the guilt for the branding, the pain of the separation, and the terrible, blinding lust of a powerful wolf who could not sever the link to his fated mate.

The air between them became thick and electric, a battleground of conflicting emotions.

The White Wolf took a slow, deliberate step forward, its fire-red eyes boring into Kael. Lyra felt the command in the movement, the undeniable truth: This was his reckoning.

Kael lifted his sword, not to attack, but defensively, his face contorted in agony. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispered, the words echoing not through the field, but straight through the mate bond into Lyra's heart. "I tried to save you."

The White Wolf laughed, a sound like cracking ice.

Then the White Wolf shifted. The huge, shimmering creature rose, standing on its hind legs, and a dark shadow, like a cloak woven of the void, draped itself across Kael’s shoulders. The crown of thorns on the White Wolf’s head seemed to burn brighter.

"You were meant to be my strength, not my anchor," Lyra heard her own thoughts scream, projected outward with the force of the Goddess’s magic. "I reject your fate. I choose my own fire."

The moon pulsed, a massive silver heartbeat in the purple sky.

Lyra reached out, not to touch him, but to push him away, to break the final cord of their agonizing connection.

The wolf lunged forward, a blur of flame and fury, and the world exploded into fire.

Lyra awoke screaming.

The sound scraped her throat raw. Her chains rattled violently against the stone as her body convulsed, a fevered, internal war raging between the wolfsbane and the divine fire. She gasped for breath, the pain in her shoulder a searing echo of the vision’s final flash.

The cell glowed.

Flickers of silver light danced across the damp floor, remnants of magic, of prophecy bleeding into the mortal world. The air crackled with energy, and for one wild second, it smelled like pure, untainted moonlight.

Then... Caz.

He was crouched in the corner, alert, his single silver eye narrowed, watching her like a man watching a bomb tick.

“You were glowing,” he said, his voice low and devoid of his usual snark. Even his breathing seemed rougher, his composure utterly shattered by the raw display of power. “Like your soul was trying to tear its way out of your body.”

Lyra choked on a breath. She could still see it. The wolf. The crown. The battlefield. Kael, defeated and covered in shadow.

“What the hell did you see?” Caz asked, his fear now replaced with a terrifying, focused intensity.

She didn’t answer right away. She brought a shaking hand to her shoulder, feeling the pulse of the Goddess Mark, no longer warm, but cold and resolute.

“A vision,” she whispered, her voice hardening with the words. “A promise.”

She locked eyes with Caz, the fear finally receding, replaced by a cold, sharp certainty that had never been there before. Her escape wasn't just revenge; it was an act of destiny.

“They didn’t chain a traitor, Caz,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute, carrying the weight of the prophecy. “They chained the war they were trying to prevent. And Kael? He’s not my mate anymore. He’s the first kingdom I have to burn down.”

Caz rose slowly, his gaze still fixed on her, calculating, assessing the cost and the reward. He saw the shift in her: the girl who was once a victim had been replaced by a focused, ruthless weapon.

“Good,” he finally said, a grim smile curving his lips. He walked over to the eastern wall, where the damp stone was covered in centuries of moss. “Because I know the prophecy too, Lyra. And to fulfill it, you don’t escape through the front gate.”

He knelt and ran a finger over an almost invisible seam in the rock face, the location of the Ancient Seal he’d mentioned before.

“The White Wolf needs a battleground bigger than this mountain,” he continued. “The Ancient Seal isn’t just a lock, it’s a gate. And on the other side? A power Kael can’t control. It’s the kind of chaos that turns a traitor into a queen.”

He looked back at her, his silver eyes gleaming with feral excitement.

“Now, Lyra Blackthorn,” Caz said, his voice a low, gravelly invitation. “Tell me about that fire. Tell me how you plan to melt through stone and shadow to find your new throne.”

Lyra smiled back, a genuine, cold smile that felt alien on her face but exhilarating in her soul.

“I don’t plan to melt it,” she corrected. “I plan to break it. And when it shatters, Kael will feel that, too.”

Her revenge had a name, a destiny, and a terrifying timeline. And it started now.