The Wolf of Fate

Chapter 3.

Chapter 3: The Altar’s Call

The scroll pulses in my hand, its blood-inked words glowing like embers. The voice—faint, human, not my white wolf—still echoes in my mind: Find the altar… before the eclipse. My breath hitches as Lysa drags me down the path toward the stronghold, Clara stumbling beside us. The Bloodclaw wolves’ howls chase us through the forest, sharp and hungry, mingling with the clash of claws and snarls from the grove behind. Darius is back there, fighting Kael, maybe dying, and I’m running like a coward. My chest aches, torn between the white wolf’s warning to flee and the need to stand my ground.

“Seraphina, keep moving!” Lysa’s voice is sharp, her hazel eyes darting to the trees. Her grip on my arm is too tight, like she’s afraid I’ll bolt. Or maybe she’s afraid of something else.

“What was that voice?” I demand, holding up the scroll as we run. Its glow fades, but my skin prickles, like it’s still alive. “You recognized it, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know!” she snaps, her voice cracking. “Just—keep going. The stronghold’s close.”

“Don’t lie to me, Lysa,” I say, pulling free. Clara gasps, clutching my other arm, her face pale with fear. I soften my tone for her. “It’s okay, Clara. We’re almost there.”

But it’s not okay. The forest feels alive, shadows shifting in the moonlight, and I swear I see eyes—red, glowing, watching. The Bloodclaws aren’t just attacking the grove; they’re tracking me. Kael’s words burn in my mind: You’re a power the Moon itself fears. What does he know that I don’t?

The stronghold’s stone walls loom ahead, its iron gates glinting under the blood-red moon. Warriors stand guard, their wolves pacing, ready to defend. Lysa pounds on the gate. “Open it! It’s us!”

The gate creaks open, and a guard—Rorik, broad and grizzled—ushers us inside. “Where’s the Alpha?” he demands, his eyes narrowing at me.

“Fighting,” I say, my throat tight. “He told us to get to safety.”

Rorik grunts, but his gaze lingers, suspicious. “And you just left him?”

I flinch, the accusation hitting like a slap. “I didn’t want to. He made me.”

“Enough,” Lysa says, stepping between us. “She’s the Luna. Show some respect.”

Rorik scoffs but waves us through. The stronghold’s courtyard is chaos—women and children huddle near the walls, healers tending to the wounded. The air smells of blood and fear, and my heat pulses harder, making my head spin. I clutch the scroll, its weight grounding me.

“Clara, go to the healers,” I say, guiding her to a group tending a bleeding warrior. She nods, still shaking, and stumbles off. I turn to Lysa, my voice low. “Talk. Now.”

She glances around, nervous, then pulls me into a shadowed corner near the armory. “You can’t tell anyone,” she whispers, her curls falling into her face. “Promise me, Seraphina.”

“Tell me what?” I snap, my patience fraying. “You’ve been dodging me all night. First the rogue wolf, then the Bloodclaw, now this scroll? What do you know?”

Her eyes glisten, and she bites her lip. “The prophecy… it’s real. I found it in the healer’s archives last year. It said the Wolf of Fate would rise in a time of war, born of a cursed bloodline. She’d control life and death, but only if her heart awakens her.”

My stomach twists. “My heart? You mean Darius?”

“I don’t know!” she says, her voice breaking. “The texts were vague. But the Bloodclaws—they’ve been searching for the Wolf of Fate for years. Kael thinks it’s you.”

I step back, my mind racing. The scroll’s words flash in my head: The Wolf of Fate will rise or fall by the hand of her heart. Darius, my contract-bound mate, who barely trusts me. Is he supposed to awaken my wolf—or destroy me? And why does Lysa look so guilty?

“Seraphina,” she says, grabbing my hands. “You have to be careful. If Kael gets you—”

She stops, her eyes widening at something behind me. I turn, and my heart stumbles. Elder Malric stands there, his robes stained with dirt, his gray eyes cold as stone. “Eavesdropping, are we?” he says, his voice dripping with venom.

“Back off, Malric,” I say, stepping in front of Lysa. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t it?” He steps closer, his thin lips curling. “You bring death to our doorstep, girl. Those wolves out there—they’re here for you. And you’re whispering secrets with a healer who should know her place.”

Lysa stiffens, but I hold my ground. “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

He leans in, his breath sour. “You’re no Luna. You’re a curse, and I’ll prove it to the pack before the eclipse.”

The eclipse. The scroll’s voice echoes again: Find the altar… before the eclipse. My pulse races. “What do you know about the eclipse?” I demand.

His eyes narrow, but before he can answer, a horn blares from the walls. Rorik’s voice booms: “Bloodclaws at the gates!”

Panic erupts in the courtyard. Mothers clutch their children, warriors grab weapons, and I feel it—a tug deep inside, like my wolf stirring. The scroll pulses again, warmer now, almost burning. I shove it into my pocket, my hands shaking.

“We need to help,” I say, turning to Lysa. “Where’s the armory?”

“You can’t fight!” she protests, her voice frantic. “You don’t even have a wolf!”

“Maybe not,” I say, my voice hard, “but I’m not hiding while Darius fights for us.”

She hesitates, then nods, leading me to the armory. Inside, it’s a maze of swords, axes, and shields. I grab a dagger, its weight unfamiliar but comforting. Lysa takes a bow, her hands steady despite her fear.

“You’re not a fighter,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Since when do you use a bow?”

She forces a smile. “You’re not the only one with secrets.”

Her words sting, but there’s no time to argue. We rush to the walls, where Rorik and the warriors are bracing for the attack. The Bloodclaws’ howls are deafening now, and I see them through the gate’s iron bars—dozens of wolves, their eyes glowing, Kael’s massive form at the front.

“Open the gates!” a warrior shouts. “We meet them head-on!”

“No!” I yell, surprising myself. Everyone turns, and I feel Malric’s glare burning into me. “If we open the gates, they’ll overrun us. We need to hold the walls.”

Rorik scoffs. “You’re no strategist, girl.”

“She’s the Luna,” Lysa snaps, her bow raised. “Listen to her.”

Rorik hesitates, then nods. “Fine. Archers, to the walls!”

I climb the stone steps, my heart pounding. The Bloodclaws are closer now, their claws scraping the earth. Kael shifts to human form, his tattooed neck gleaming under the moon. “Seraphina!” he calls, his voice carrying like a blade. “Come out, or we burn this place to ash!”

My blood runs cold. Darius is still out there, and I can’t see him in the chaos. Is he alive? The scroll burns in my pocket, and I feel that tug again, stronger now. Find the altar. I glance at Lysa, who’s notched an arrow, her face pale.

“Lysa,” I whisper, “is there an altar in the stronghold?”

Her eyes widen. “The old one, in the crypts. Why?”

“The scroll,” I say, pulling it out. It’s glowing again, brighter. “It told me to find the altar before the eclipse.”

She stares at the scroll, her mouth open. “That’s impossible. It’s just paper.”

“It’s not,” I say, my voice firm. “I heard a voice. A woman’s voice.”

Before she can argue, a crash shakes the walls. The Bloodclaws are ramming the gates, their snarls echoing. An arrow flies past my head, grazing my cheek. I touch it, my fingers coming away wet with blood.

“Get down!” Lysa yells, pulling me behind a battlement. She fires her bow, and a Bloodclaw yelps, falling back. But there are too many.

I clutch the scroll, my mind racing. The crypts are deep in the stronghold, hidden below the main hall. If the altar’s there, it might hold answers—about my wolf, the prophecy, everything. But leaving the walls means abandoning the fight. And Darius.

“Lysa,” I say, my voice urgent. “Cover me. I’m going to the crypts.”

“Are you crazy?” she hisses. “You’ll never make it!”

“I have to,” I say, gripping the dagger. “Something’s calling me. I can feel it.”

She stares at me, her eyes searching, then nods. “Go. I’ll keep them busy.”

I squeeze her hand, grateful but uneasy. She’s still hiding something, but there’s no time to dig. I slip down the steps, dodging warriors and panicked pack members. The main hall is a blur of shouting and clanging weapons. I find the crypts’ entrance—a heavy stone door, half-hidden behind a tapestry.

My hands tremble as I push it open. The air inside is cold, musty, smelling of earth and time. Stone steps spiral down into darkness, and I hesitate, the scroll’s glow my only light. The sounds of battle fade, replaced by a low hum, like a heartbeat. My wolf stirs again, stronger, her presence a warm pulse in my chest.

“Seraphina,” a voice whispers—not in my head, but from the crypts below. It’s the same voice from the scroll, soft and urgent. “Come.”

I swallow hard, my dagger raised, and start down the steps. The scroll burns hotter, its glow illuminating ancient runes carved into the walls. My heart pounds, fear and hope tangling together. What’s waiting for me? Answers? Or a trap?

The hum grows louder, and I reach the bottom, where a stone altar stands, covered in lunar runes that pulse in time with the scroll. I step closer, my breath catching. The white wolf’s image flashes in my mind, her starlit eyes calm but fierce. You are enough.

I place the scroll on the altar, and it flares, blinding me. When my vision clears, a figure stands before me—a woman, translucent, her silver hair flowing like moonlight. She looks like my grandmother, but her eyes are the white wolf’s.

“Seraphina,” she says, her voice echoing. “The Wolf of Fate wakes, but your heart is not yet ready. Find the truth, or it will break you.”

“Who are you?” I whisper, my voice shaking. “What truth?”

She reaches out, her hand hovering over my heart. “The one who bound you… and the one who can free you.”

Before I can ask more, the crypt shakes, dust falling from the ceiling. A scream echoes from above—Lysa’s. My heart lurches. The battle’s reached the stronghold, and I’m trapped below, with a ghost and a prophecy I don’t understand. The woman’s eyes flicker, and she points to the altar, where a hidden compartment clicks open, revealing a silver amulet pulsing with light.

“Take it,” she says. “Before it’s too late.”

I grab the amulet, its warmth searing my skin. The crypt shakes again, and I hear footsteps—heavy, deliberate—coming down the steps. Not Lysa. Not Darius. Someone else.

“Who’s there?” I call, my dagger raised, my heart in my throat. The amulet glows brighter, and the white wolf’s voice roars in my mind: Choose now, or lose everything.