Teeth and ash
1082 Words
Snow began to fall again by morning, light and dry, like powdered bone. It drifted down over the ruined halls of Aelwyn and dusted the shoulders of the Moonborne, who stood waiting, silent, watchful. Tension hung in the air like frost.
The scent of steel and oil came first.
Then the horns.
Then the Eldorian banners, barely visible through the tree line.
The soldiers came in formation—knights clad in silver-inlaid armor, their helms crested with blue and gold, moving in three files. They were well-trained. Disciplined. Caela knew their footwork, knew the way they shifted their weight before a charge. She had trained half of them.
And they had come to kill her.
She stood atop the battlements, the cold wind whipping her cloak around her. Bramble stood beside her, still and silent. Below, the pack gathered in clusters—wolves in both man and beast-skin, whispering, snarling, waiting for the signal.
Thorne stood at the center of them, his bare arms folded across his chest, his dark eyes burning.
“How many?” he asked.
“Forty,” Caela answered. “Maybe fifty.”
Thorne bared his teeth. “Not enough.”
“They’ve never fought us before.”
“Neither have you.”
Caela turned to face him. “We won’t attack unless provoked.”
Thorne tilted his head. “And when they surround us? Starve us? Burn us out?”
“Then we fight.”
“But not yet?”
“Not until they force our hand.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.
Instead, he stepped back into the snow, lifted his head, and let out a long, low howl that rolled over the ruins like thunder.
The pack fell silent.
Waiting.
Caela rode out alone, as she had promised. Her sword hung sheathed across her back. Her hands were bare. Her wolf lay just beneath her skin, curled and hungry, but restrained for now.
She stopped twenty paces from the lead knight’s horse.
Commander Marek Althorn watched her approach, helm off, eyes narrowed beneath his fur-lined hood. His men flanked him, bows half-raised, nervous hands near hilts.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said.
“You came first.”
“You’ve chosen their side, then.”
“No,” Caela said. “I’ve chosen the truth." Survival.”
Marek’s voice hardened. “They’re monsters.”
“They’re people.”
“They’re beasts with teeth and curses in their blood.”
“So am I.”
The words silenced them.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the younger knight, Ser Jalen, she remembered, snorted. “She’s not human anymore. Look at her.”
Another knight muttered, “Witch blood.”
Marek looked at her for a long time. “I knew you once, Caela. You taught me to fight. It taught me to lead. But this—this is treason.”
“No. This is transformation.”
She stepped forward.
“Let me show you. Go inside the ruins. Speak with them. Look in their eyes. They’re not what you’ve been told.”
Marek shook his head. “The king has given orders. You should be taken alive if possible. Dead, if not.”
Her jaw tightened. “Then we’re done talking.”
He sighed. “I hoped you’d see the reason.”
“I hoped you’d listen.”
Then she turned her back.
And walked away.
She heard the order behind her:
“Archers—loose.”
Arrows flew like wasps.
Caela spun, dropping to her knees.
Bramble leapt from the shadows, intercepting three shafts midair, jaws snapping.
The rest struck the surrounding snow with mere warnings.
But the pack didn’t wait.
The woods exploded in motion.
Dozens of Moonborne surged from the ruins, men, women, half-shifted beasts crashing through snow and brush. Howls split the sky. Trees shivered from the impact.
Caela ran for her horse, whistled once. Brynn galloped to meet her.
She mounted mid-sprint and rode back toward the gates, heart hammering.
Behind her, chaos erupted.
The battle was brutal.
Moonborne slammed into the Eldorian line like thunder. Claws against shields. Fangs against steel. Horses reared. The men screamed. The snow turned red.
Thorne shifted mid-leap, landing atop a knight and crushing him beneath lupine muscle. Another warrior, Lira, with her bone-bladed staff, ripped through two soldiers before she fell under a hail of crossbow bolts.
Caela reached the gates just as they burst inward.
Jalen led the charge, his blade raised high.
She met him with steel.
Ashreign sang, slicing through his shoulder guard. He howled, not in fury, but in pain. Human pain.
She didn’t finish him.
She couldn’t.
Instead, she kicked him back and turned to face the others.
For minutes, maybe hours, they fought.
Snow melted beneath the blood. Screams echoed off stones.
And slowly, the tide began to turn.
The knights were trained. But they weren’t ready for this.
Not for claws that healed as fast as they bled.
Not for enemies who felt no fear.
And not for Dame Caela, Moonblood reborn, who fought like something divine and furious.
When the last horn sounded retreat, fewer than twenty knights remained.
They fled into the forest, wounded, scattered.
Caela stood in the wreckage, her blade slick with blood, her eyes glowing faintly.
Bramble stood at her side, untouched.
The pack gathered behind her, breathing hard, victorious.
Thorne approached, his chest heaving, his mouth red.
“They started it,” he said.
“I know.”
“They’ll be back.”
“I know.”
He looked at her.
And for the first time, he knelt.
“Then we will be ready, Queen of the Broken Moon.”
Later, she walked among the wounded. Tended those she could. Sat beside those she couldn’t save.
One of them was Lira. Her breaths were shallow. Her eyes clouded.
“You fought well,” Caela whispered.
Lira smiled faintly. “I always believed you’d come.”
“How did you know?”
“I saw you once. In a vision. You were in silver. Surrounded by wolves. Eyes like starlight.”
“I’m not who they think I am.”
Lira shook her head. “You’re more.”
Then she died.
And the wind howled for her.
That night, Caela stood alone on the battlements again.
Watching the snow fall.
Watching the moon rise.
Her hands still trembled. Not from fear. Not from rage.
But from hunger.
It was getting stronger.
And so she was.
- Writer
