Prologue
The night the child was born, the moon bled crimson.
Across the northern forests, wolves lifted their heads and howled toward the sky. In the southern mountains, witches abandoned their spells and stared at the blood-red moon hanging over the world like an omen.
For five hundred years, the Kingdom of Witches and the Wolf Clans had been at war.
Five hundred years of slaughter.
Five hundred years of hatred.
Neither side remembered who had drawn first blood anymore. All they remembered was revenge.
And yet, on this cursed night, beneath the roots of the ancient World Tree hidden between both realms, their two heirs stood together in secret.
Princess Seraphina heiress of the Witches Kingdom clutched a newborn child against her chest. Her silver robes were stained with blood and ash. Beside her stood prince Fenrir heir of the Werewolf Kingdom, his golden eyes fixed on the infant with a mixture of wonder and fear.
The baby slept peacefully.
Unaware that her existence could destroy kingdoms.
Or save them.
"She bears both marks," the old seer whispered.
The ancient witch knelt before the child, trembling.
A crescent moon shimmered faintly on the baby's shoulder—the mark of the wolves.
At the same time, black-violet magic curled around her tiny fingers like living smoke.
Impossible.
Forbidden.
Never before had witch and wolf blood been joined.
The seer's pale eyes clouded white.
The forest fell silent.
Even the wind stopped.
Then she spoke.
"When the blood moon rises for the eighteenth time, the daughter of moon and magic shall stand between fang and flame. She will unite what was broken... or drown the world in a war that will leave neither kingdom standing."
Princess Seraphina's breath caught.
Prince Fenrir's jaw tightened.
The prophecy had arrived.
And prophecies were never kind.
A distant horn echoed through the forest.
Then another.
The princess's face drained of color.
"They found us."
The prince unsheathed his sword.
The peace they had built in secret had lasted only a few precious hours.
Outside the grove, angry voices rose from the darkness.
Witches.
Wolves.
Both sides hunting the same thing.
The child.
Because if either kingdom learned the truth—that their rulers had conceived a daughter together—the war would never end.
It would become something far worse.
The baby stirred.
Tiny fingers wrapped around the princess's thumb.
A single tear slid down Seraphina's cheek.
"We have to send her away."
The words shattered the silence.
Prince Fenrir looked at his daughter for the first time.
Really looked at her.
At the dark maroon strands already visible among her black hair.
At the olive skin that reflected both bloodlines.
At the peaceful expression of someone too young to know the burden fate had placed upon her.
He knew he might never see her again.
Yet if she stayed, she would die.
Or become a weapon.
The prince pressed a kiss against her forehead.
"Live," he whispered.
The princess closed her eyes.
"Live long enough to choose your own destiny."
The horns grew louder.
The seer raised her staff.
Magic burst from the World Tree in a storm of silver light.
The infant vanished.
And with her, the last hope for peace.
For eighteen years, the kingdoms would believe the child was dead.
For eighteen years, hatred would continue to spread.
But fate is patient.
And some wars can only end when the girl born from both sides finally learns who she is.
