FIRST BLOOD QUEEN: Rise Of The Forgotten Throne

‎The village of Raven Hollow came alive long before sunset. ‎ ‎From the highest watchtower overlooking the valley, hundreds of crimson lanterns shimmered like fallen stars scattered across the streets. Colorful banners embroidered with silver wolves fluttered proudly in the cool autumn breeze, while the scent of roasted venison, fresh bread, and sweet honey cakes drifted through the air. ‎ ‎It was the most anticipated night of the year. ‎The Blood Moon Festival. ‎ ‎For generations, every member of the Silverfang Pack had gathered beneath the first Blood Moon of autumn to honor the Moon Goddess—the divine protector who had blessed their ancestors with strength, unity, and the sacred wolf spirit. ‎ ‎The elders believed the festival renewed the bond between the pack and the goddess. ‎ ‎The warriors believed it was a celebration of their victories. ‎ ‎The children believed it was simply the happiest night of the year. Only one person couldn't find joy in it. ‎Lyra Ravencrest stood alone on the balcony outside the servants' quarters, her fingers resting lightly against the weathered wooden railing. Before her stretched the entire village, glowing with excitement and laughter. ‎ ‎She watched it all in silence. A lonely silence. ‎ ‎‎The evening breeze lifted strands of her midnight-black hair, revealing eyes unlike anyone else's in the Silverfang Pack. ‎ ‎Eyes the color of molten silver. ‎People often whispered that silver eyes were beautiful. ‎ ‎Others whispered they were cursed. ‎‎Lyra had stopped caring which they believed. ‎ ‎Behind her, the grand Ravencrest Manor buzzed with frantic preparations. ‎ ‎Servants hurried through polished hallways carrying expensive gowns, polished weapons, jeweled necklaces, and trays overflowing with delicacies prepared for tonight's banquet. ‎ ‎None of it was for her. Lyra. ‎The sharp voice echoed through the corridor. ‎ ‎She closed her eyes for a brief moment before turning around. ‎ ‎Martha, the head housekeeper, marched toward her with crossed arms. There you are. ‎ ‎Without waiting for an answer, the older woman shoved a heavy basket into Lyra's arms. ‎ ‎"The festival begins in less than an hour. Lady Selene's room still needs cleaning, the banquet hall isn't finished, and the guests will arrive any minute." ‎ ‎Lyra lowered her head. " yes, Martha." ‎And don't keep Lady Selene waiting." ‎ ‎"I won't." Martha Clicked her tongue before walking away. ‎"You should be grateful Lord Ravencrest still feeds you." ‎ ‎The words lingered long after the housekeeper disappeared. Grateful. ‎‎That word followed Lyra everywhere. ‎ ‎Grateful for a roof. ‎ ‎Grateful for scraps. ‎ ‎Grateful simply because she existed. ‎ ‎No one ever remembered that she had been born into the Ravencrest family. ‎ ‎No one cared that this manor had once belonged to her parents. ‎ ‎After their mysterious deaths fourteen years ago, everything had changed. ‎ ‎Her uncle, Lord Aldric Ravencrest, became head of the family. ‎ ‎From that day onward, Lyra ceased to exist as a daughter of the house. ‎ ‎She became little more than an unpaid servant. ‎ ‎She carried water. ‎ ‎She scrubbed floors. ‎ ‎She washed clothes. ‎ ‎She obeyed every order without complaint. ‎ ‎Because complaints only earned bruises. ‎ ‎Lyra adjusted the basket against her hip and walked quietly through the manor's endless corridors. ‎ ‎Portraits of former Ravencrest leaders lined the walls. ‎ ‎Powerful Alphas. ‎ ‎Decorated warriors. ‎ ‎Pack heroes. ‎ ‎Among them hung the portrait of her parents. ‎ ‎She stopped. ‎ ‎Her mother smiled gently from the painting, dressed in flowing white robes embroidered with silver feathers. ‎ ‎Her father stood beside her, tall and proud in ceremonial armor. ‎ ‎His silver eyes matched Lyra's perfectly. ‎ ‎She reached out, brushing invisible dust from the edge of the frame. ‎ ‎"I miss you," she whispered. ‎ ‎No answer came. ‎ ‎Only silence. ‎ ‎A familiar ache tightened around her heart. ‎ ‎Sometimes she wondered if anyone besides herself still remembered them. ‎ ‎Footsteps echoed behind her. ‎ ‎"Lingering again?" ‎ ‎Lyra quickly lowered her hand. ‎ ‎Selene Ravencrest approached with effortless elegance. ‎ ‎She was breathtakingly beautiful. ‎ ‎Golden curls cascaded over her shoulders, and the crimson gown hugging her figure sparkled with tiny moonstones. Around her neck rested the Silverfang Heirloom Necklace—a treasure that had once belonged to Lyra's mother. ‎ ‎It hurt every time she saw it. ‎ ‎Selene noticed where Lyra was looking. ‎ ‎"Oh..." ‎ ‎She touched the necklace with a smug smile. ‎ ‎"You like it?" ‎ ‎Lyra remained silent. ‎ ‎"My father says beautiful things shouldn't be wasted on dead people." ‎ ‎She laughed softly. ‎ ‎"I think Mother wears it much better now." ‎ ‎The girls accompanying Selene burst into laughter. ‎ ‎One stepped forward and deliberately bumped Lyra's shoulder. ‎ ‎The basket slipped from her hands. ‎ ‎Fresh white flowers scattered across the polished floor. ‎ ‎"Oh dear," Selene sighed dramatically. ‎ ‎"What a clumsy servant." ‎ ‎Another round of laughter echoed through the hallway. ‎ ‎Lyra knelt quietly, gathering the flowers one by one. ‎ ‎Not because she deserved the humiliation. ‎ ‎Because she refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. ‎ ‎Selene crouched beside her. ‎ ‎"So many important guests are coming tonight." ‎ ‎Her voice became softer. ‎ ‎"You should stay out of sight." ‎ ‎She leaned close enough for only Lyra to hear. ‎ ‎"No one wants bad luck at the Blood Moon Festival." ‎ ‎Selene rose gracefully before walking away. ‎ ‎Her laughter echoed through the manor long after she disappeared. ‎ ‎Lyra remained kneeling. ‎ ‎One flower had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. ‎ ‎She stared at its broken petals. ‎ ‎Somehow... ‎ ‎She understood exactly how it felt. ‎ ‎After collecting the remaining flowers, she quietly left the manor through the back entrance. ‎ ‎The village outside overflowed with celebration. ‎ ‎Children raced between market stalls carrying glowing lanterns. ‎ ‎Musicians played cheerful melodies that filled the streets with life. ‎ ‎Merchants shouted over one another, inviting visitors to sample roasted meat, sweet pastries, and exotic fruits brought from neighboring packs. ‎ ‎Everyone smiled. ‎ ‎Everyone belonged. ‎ ‎Everyone... ‎ ‎Except Lyra. ‎ ‎She pulled her faded gray cloak tighter around herself and slipped unnoticed through the bustling crowd. ‎ ‎No one greeted her. ‎ ‎No one smiled. ‎ ‎Several villagers whispered as she passed. ‎ ‎"That's the orphan from Ravencrest Manor." ‎ ‎"I heard she's cursed." ‎ ‎"They say wolves avoid her." ‎ ‎"What a shame..." ‎ ‎Lyra kept walking. ‎ ‎Their words no longer surprised her. ‎ ‎But they still hurt. ‎ ‎She crossed the crowded square and reached the edge of the ancient forest overlooking the village. ‎ ‎Here... ‎ ‎The laughter became distant. ‎ ‎The wind carried only the scent of pine and damp earth. ‎ ‎This had always been her sanctuary. ‎ ‎A place where no one demanded anything from her. ‎ ‎A place where she could simply breathe. ‎ ‎She rested beneath the enormous black oak that stood alone atop the hill. ‎ ‎From there, she could see the entire village preparing for the festival below. ‎ ‎As the final rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the mountains... ‎ ‎An unnatural silence settled over the forest. ‎ ‎Lyra frowned. ‎ ‎The birds had stopped singing. ‎ ‎Even the insects had fallen quiet. ‎ ‎A cold breeze brushed against her face. ‎ ‎Slowly... ‎ ‎She lifted her eyes toward the darkening sky. ‎ ‎Something was wrong. ‎ ‎Lyra slowly rose to her feet. ‎ ‎Her silver eyes remained fixed on the heavens. ‎ ‎The sky had changed. ‎ ‎Moments ago, it had been painted in brilliant shades of orange and gold by the setting sun. Now an ocean of dark clouds rolled silently across the horizon, swallowing the last traces of daylight. Crimson streaks spread through them like veins beneath pale skin, glowing faintly before fading again. ‎ ‎A shiver raced down her spine. ‎ ‎"What is this...?" ‎ ‎She glanced toward the village. ‎ ‎The festival continued as though nothing had happened. ‎ ‎Children laughed. ‎ ‎Musicians played. ‎ ‎The sound of drums echoed through the streets. ‎ ‎No one looked frightened. ‎ ‎No one was even looking at the sky. ‎ ‎Her brows knitted together. ‎ ‎Am I the only one who can see it? ‎ ‎The wind suddenly died. ‎ ‎Not weakened. ‎ ‎Stopped. ‎ ‎The leaves hanging from the ancient black oak froze in place. ‎ ‎The forest held its breath. ‎ ‎Even the towering pines surrounding the hill stood unnaturally still. ‎ ‎Then— ‎ ‎A low hum vibrated through the earth beneath her feet. ‎ ‎It was so faint she almost mistook it for her heartbeat. ‎ ‎But it grew stronger. ‎ ‎Steadier. ‎ ‎Older. ‎ ‎The sound seemed to come from deep beneath the mountain itself. ‎ ‎Lyra instinctively placed a hand over her chest. ‎ ‎Her heart answered the strange rhythm. ‎ ‎Thump. ‎ ‎Thump. ‎ ‎Thump. ‎ ‎The two beats slowly became one. ‎ ‎Without warning, a sharp pain exploded behind her eyes. ‎ ‎She gasped, dropping to one knee. ‎ ‎Flashes of unfamiliar memories stormed through her mind. ‎ ‎A throne carved from black crystal. ‎ ‎Countless wolves kneeling across a vast battlefield. ‎ ‎Silver banners fluttering beneath a crimson moon. ‎ ‎A woman stood upon the throne. ‎ ‎Her face remained hidden behind shadows, but her long silver hair flowed like liquid moonlight. ‎ ‎Power radiated from her. ‎ ‎Ancient. ‎ ‎Limitless. ‎ ‎Terrifying. ‎ ‎The woman slowly lifted her head. ‎ ‎For a single heartbeat... ‎ ‎Their eyes met. ‎ ‎Lyra's breath caught. ‎ ‎The woman's eyes... ‎ ‎They were identical to hers. ‎ ‎The vision shattered. ‎ ‎Lyra stumbled backward, breathing heavily. ‎ ‎"No..." ‎ ‎She pressed trembling fingers against her temples. ‎ ‎"It wasn't real." ‎ ‎It couldn't have been. ‎ ‎She had never seen that place. ‎ ‎Never seen that woman. ‎ ‎Yet the overwhelming feeling of familiarity refused to disappear. ‎ ‎Before she could gather her thoughts, the village bell rang. ‎ ‎Dong... ‎ ‎Dong... ‎ ‎Dong... ‎ ‎Its deep voice rolled across Raven Hollow. ‎ ‎The Blood Moon Ceremony was beginning. ‎ ‎Villagers flooded toward the Sacred Plaza, where the Moon Altar stood beneath an ancient stone arch carved with wolves and crescent moons. ‎ ‎Curiosity overcame her unease. ‎ ‎Pulling her cloak around herself, Lyra hurried back toward the village. ‎ ‎By the time she reached the plaza, hundreds of pack members had already gathered. ‎ ‎Torches illuminated the massive stone altar at its center. ‎ ‎Behind it stood Elder Magnus, the oldest priest of the Silverfang Pack. ‎ ‎His silver beard reached his waist, and age had bent his back, but his piercing blue eyes still commanded respect. ‎ ‎Silence gradually settled over the crowd. ‎ ‎Elder Magnus raised an ancient silver staff toward the sky. ‎ ‎"My brothers and sisters," he declared, his voice echoing through the square. "Tonight we gather beneath the sacred Blood Moon to honor the Moon Goddess, who has watched over the Silverfang Pack since the First Alpha." ‎ ‎The villagers lowered their heads. ‎ ‎"May she bless our warriors with strength." ‎ ‎"Amen," the crowd answered. ‎ ‎"May she bless our children with hope." ‎ ‎"Amen." ‎ ‎"And may darkness never find its way into our home." ‎ ‎"Amen." ‎ ‎As the final prayer left their lips, the clouds above slowly parted. ‎ ‎The moon emerged. ‎ ‎A collective gasp swept through the plaza. ‎ ‎It wasn't silver. ‎ ‎It wasn't white. ‎ ‎It burned crimson. ‎ ‎A perfect blood-red moon hung above Raven Hollow. ‎ ‎The crimson light washed over every face. ‎ ‎For a moment, the entire village seemed frozen beneath its glow. ‎ ‎Then the impossible happened. ‎ ‎The moon pulsed. ‎ ‎Once. ‎ ‎Twice. ‎ ‎Three times. ‎ ‎Each pulse sent invisible waves across the sky. ‎ ‎Lyra staggered as unbearable pressure crashed into her chest. ‎ ‎Her heart pounded wildly. ‎ ‎Something inside her... ‎ ‎Something buried for years... ‎ ‎Was waking up. ‎ ‎A strange warmth spread through her veins. ‎ ‎The silver in her eyes brightened. ‎ ‎She quickly lowered her head before anyone noticed. ‎ ‎"What is happening to me?" ‎ ‎Far away, wolves began to howl. ‎ ‎One voice. ‎ ‎Then ten. ‎ ‎Then hundreds. ‎ ‎The mournful chorus echoed through the mountains. ‎ ‎Several warriors exchanged uneasy glances. ‎ ‎"This has never happened before," one whispered. ‎ ‎"The wolves sound frightened." ‎ ‎Another shook his head. ‎ ‎"They're not frightened." ‎ ‎"They're bowing." ‎ ‎A chill swept through the gathered crowd. ‎ ‎Without warning, every torch surrounding the altar was extinguished at once. ‎ ‎Darkness swallowed the plaza. ‎ ‎Children cried. ‎ ‎Women clung to their families. ‎ ‎The only light left came from the enormous Blood Moon overhead. ‎ ‎Then... ‎ ‎A figure appeared. ‎ ‎An old woman slowly walked through the frightened crowd. ‎ ‎No one seemed to notice where she had come from. ‎ ‎She wore tattered gray robes covered in strange silver symbols. ‎ ‎Her long white hair reached almost to the ground. ‎ ‎Her eyes... ‎ ‎Were completely white. ‎ ‎Blind. ‎ ‎Yet she walked without hesitation. ‎ ‎Step after step. ‎ ‎Straight toward Lyra. ‎ ‎The crowd unconsciously parted for her. ‎ ‎Lyra felt rooted to the ground. ‎ ‎The old woman stopped only inches away. ‎ ‎For several seconds, neither of them spoke. ‎ ‎Although the woman's eyes were clouded with blindness, Lyra felt as though every secret hidden inside her soul had been laid bare. ‎ ‎A faint smile appeared on the old woman's lips. ‎ ‎She lifted one trembling hand. ‎ ‎With surprising gentleness, she touched Lyra's forehead. ‎ ‎The instant their skin met— ‎ ‎A deafening roar exploded inside Lyra's mind. ‎ ‎She saw a crown of black silver. ‎ ‎A kingdom consumed by flames. ‎ ‎An army kneeling before a queen whose face remained hidden beneath moonlight. ‎ ‎The queen slowly opened her eyes. ‎ ‎Silver. ‎ ‎Ancient. ‎ ‎Unyielding. ‎ ‎Then a single voice echoed through the vision. ‎ ‎"Awaken..." ‎ ‎The world snapped back into place. ‎ ‎Lyra stumbled backward, nearly falling. ‎ ‎She stared at the old woman in horror. ‎ ‎"Who... who are you?" ‎ ‎The old woman smiled. ‎ ‎A tear slipped from her blind eye. ‎ ‎For the first time in centuries... ‎ ‎Her prophecy had come true. ‎ ‎She looked directly at Lyra and whispered words so soft only she could hear. ‎ ‎"The Queen has returned." ‎ ‎Lyra's blood turned to ice. ‎