BLOOD OF THE FORGOTTEN

Chapter Four: Fever Dreams

Heat consumed her, devouring any traces of clarity.

Selene drifted between worlds, writhing on the snow's edge near the ruins. The cold should have gnawed at her bare skin, but instead, she felt an inescapable, ceaseless fire alive within her. Her blood surged rapidly; her heart pounded furiously, as if her veins were on the brink of bursting under the pressure.

Her breath came out in ragged gasps, tearing from her throat. She clutched the wound on her shoulder, trying to smother the sensation, but the bite burned fiercely beneath her palm, like a brand seared deep into her flesh.

She longed to scream, to unleash the agony, but only a whimper escaped—a small, helpless sound in the vast desolation.

Then came the visions, crashing over her like waves.

Flames roared behind her eyelids. The Blackthorn square blazed, and townspeople panicked as wolves circled with predatory grace. Amidst the chaos stood Riven Kaelor, the Alpha of Blackthorn, on the hall steps. Blood streaked his face, and his golden eyes bore into hers, accusing her silently, as though she were the cause of the c*****e.

And then, from fire and smoke, emerged another figure—taller, cloaked in shadow. Kade. His smile, a sharp curve, both malevolent and mesmerizing, as he extended his hand, eyes flickering ominously with crimson light.

“Choose,” he said, without moving his lips, his voice slithering through her mind like an inescapable curse.

The fire twisted her reality.

Now she stood among the ruins, though they seemed whole, robust under the night sky. The banners of the Forgotten Wolves fluttered wildly. Men and women with glowing crimson eyes knelt before her, howling fervently to a bloody moon above. Their worship wrapped around her like a heavy cloak, pressing against her chest.

Queen of Ash. Heir of Fire.

The words were not her own but slithered through her consciousness from the wolf within.

You were born for this.

“No,” Selene whispered, her voice trembling between dream and delirium. “I don’t want this. I just want to be free.”

The wolf's laughter reverberated through her bones, dark and amused.

Freedom is an illusion. Power is real. Power is survival. You are mine.

Her body convulsed violently. She curled on her side, nails raking the snow as agony coursed through her. Her teeth ached, her bones groaned as if yearning to shift and escape. For a dreadful heartbeat, she feared her body would break, releasing the wolf inside.

The fever trapped her in a liminal space between girl and beast, dream and reality.

Images bombarded her in fragmented flashes: her mother’s face twisted in rage, drowning her as a child, her lungs screaming for air, fists pounding helplessly, her mother’s whisper piercing the air—"forgive me, forgive me, forgive me."

Selene gasped awake, tears burning. The memory was vivid and painful. It wasn’t a dream. Her mother had truly tried to kill her, lost in her own turmoil.

The fire pulsed within, the wolf’s growl resonating deep in her chest.

They feared you even then. They tried to bury what you are. But you cannot be buried. You are the flame. You are the ruin. You are mine.

“No,” she choked, clutching her temples, willing the voice away. “I don’t belong to anyone!”

The forest responded with oppressive silence, weighing heavily upon her.

Only her ragged breath and the relentless drumbeat of her heart remained as companions.

Finally, she slipped into a saturated darkness, dreaming not of fire or wolves but of a warm, human hand reaching for hers—a touch that didn’t burn or bind, only held gently. She woke to the ache of that connection, a powerful reminder of her deepest desire.

Not to rule. Not to destroy.

To be loved. To be free.

But as the dawn bled pale over Blackthorn, Selene’s fever had only begun.