Moonbond : The rise of the bloodmarked

The sky bled crimson over the jagged peaks of the Draemor Mountains, where the trees whispered in an ancient tongue and the wind carried more than just cold—it carried memory. Asha crouched by the edge of the river, her fingers raw, stained with ash and blood. Behind her, the village of Brimvale still smoldered—what was left of it. Flames danced like demons through the wooden ruins. Screams had long faded, but the scent of burning flesh lingered in the air. She hadn’t meant to survive. Not when the Hunters came. They wore silver armor and bore weapons forged in moonlight. Their blades didn’t just cut—they burned. They had come looking for one thing: the Bloodmarked, the one who would awaken the dormant bloodline of the Old Wolves. Asha didn’t know why they looked at her. She was seventeen. An orphan. A nobody who lived near the forest edge and talked to animals like they were people. Her only family had been her grandmother, Mirel, who’d died two winters ago, whispering of curses and kings who wore fur instead of crowns. Now they were all gone. Except her. And the wolf. It had been watching her from the tree line all day—its coat darker than midnight, its eyes burning gold like twin suns. It didn’t growl. It didn’t move. It simply waited. When Asha finally stood, trembling, it turned and vanished into the trees. Something pulled her forward. Not fear. Not hope. Something deeper. She followed. --- Far beyond the woods, in the Court of Thorns, a silver-haired king stared into the flames of a scrying mirror. “She awakens,” he said, voice like thunder wrapped in silk. “The Bloodmarked lives.” A woman in black robes hissed. “Then we kill her now, before the prophecy unfolds.” The king’s lips curled. “No. Let her come. Let her learn. Let her break.” He leaned closer to the mirror, where Asha’s face flickered through smoke and shadow. “She was born to be mine.”