Chapter 13: The Rise of the Black Wolves
852 Words
Blood stained the sky.
The northern ridge burned with the banners of the old King—Kael’s father—riding at the front of a black-cloaked legion.
No royal crest. No family sigils.
Only the mark of the broken crown, slashed with a wolf’s fang.
The Black Wolves.
They didn’t howl.
They advanced like shadows—silent, precise, merciless.
Kael watched from the cliffside.
Luna stood beside him, her body still sore from their bonding beneath the Bone Tree, the mark on her shoulder still throbbing with fresh power.
“How many?” she asked.
“Too many for a frontal fight,” Kael said.
“And if we don’t?”
“We die in chains.”
Her mouth twitched. “Then we take their leashes first.”
The camp erupted into motion.
Scouts scrambled.
Blades were sharpened. Arrows laced with wolfsbane. Blood priests awakened the sleeping runes carved into the valley floor.
Luna walked through it all like a flame.
Wolves bowed as she passed.
Some whispered about Alpha’s mate.
Others whispered Alpha.
She didn’t correct them.
That night, the strategy was simple.
They would strike before the Black Wolves reached the valley.
A strike team of twenty.
Kael would lead from the shadows.
Luna from the ridge.
They kissed before parting, wordless.
The kind of kiss that said we may not come back.
Then they were gone.
Luna reached the overlook at midnight.
The ridge lay beneath her, crawling with Kael’s father’s forces—tents like black boils in the grass.
She raised her dagger.
A signal.
And from the east, the sky burst open.
Explosives hidden beneath the enemy camp ignited, fire ripping through lines of tents.
Wolves howled in confusion.
Kael’s strike team descended, blades flashing.
For ten glorious minutes, they had the upper hand.
Then the King stepped onto the battlefield.
He was taller than Kael.
Older. Worn like iron.
His eyes were the same gold—but colder. Emptier.
He didn’t shift.
He didn’t roar.
He commanded.
And the Black Wolves answered like machines.
Luna watched Kael fight his way toward his father.
But the Black King raised one hand.
And Kael stopped moving.
His body froze mid-lunge. Muscles locked. Eyes wide.
Magic.
Ancient. Royal. Absolute.
“No,” Luna breathed.
Then the King looked straight at her.
She moved.
Fast.
Leapt from the ridge, crashing through branches, rolling into the dirt. Her leg screamed in protest, still wounded, but she ran.
Kael was surrounded.
The King stood calm at the center, his hand still raised, Kael’s body trapped in magical paralysis.
Three black wolves closed in.
One slashed across Kael’s ribs.
Another punched a blade into his shoulder.
The third raised a sword for the kill.
Luna screamed.
Something broke inside her.
The ground trembled.
A pulse erupted from her chest—blood-red, not silver.
Wolves around her staggered.
Her mark burned.
Her bones cracked.
And something ancient woke inside her.
Her eyes turned black.
Her mouth split into a snarl.
She didn’t shift.
She became something more.
Wings of shadow erupted from her back—ethereal, pulsing, made of smoke and grief.
She moved faster than light.
Her blade slid across the throat of the nearest attacker before he saw her.
The second never even screamed.
The third she tore apart with her bare hands.
Kael collapsed as the spell broke.
He landed hard, blood pouring from three wounds.
Luna stood over him, his body glowing with red sigils.
The Black King raised a brow.
“Well,” he said. “She is yours after all.”
Luna stepped forward.
“You touched him,” she growled.
“I will again.”
“You won’t live long enough.”
She attacked.
Not like a warrior.
Like a force of nature.
The King met her with a conjured blade of shadow, and their steel screamed as it met.
They fought between heartbeats—her rage against his precision, her bond against his crown.
She bled.
He staggered.
She struck his chest.
He punched her face.
The world shrank to their war.
Kael tried to rise.
Failed.
Tried again.
And forced himself upright, blood trailing behind him.
He reached Luna just as the King landed a blow that would have crushed her spine.
Kael took it instead.
He crumpled.
Luna screamed again—no words, only fury.
She leapt over him, blade spinning.
She didn’t kill the King.
But she scarred him.
A long, deep cut across his throat—bleeding, not fatal, but symbolic.
He backed away, clutching his neck.
And vanished into shadow.
Luna dropped beside Kael, heart pounding.
“You stupid, arrogant, noble bastard,” she hissed, hands glowing with healing magic she didn’t know she had.
He smiled weakly.
“Still think I’m cursed?”
“No,” she said. “But I think I’m addicted.”
He coughed blood. “Same.”
She kissed him.
Deep. Desperate. Alive.
They limped back to camp under a sky blackened by ash.
Behind them, the King left no trace.
But his army had faltered.
His pride had bled.
And his son survived.
For now.
- Writer
