Prologue
In the beginning, there wasn’t one world—there were many.
They formed in the first breath of Moon and Sun, spun from chaos into order. Each rose with its own element, rulers, and laws. And even as they stood apart, they were bound by a covenant older than any language: the Great Accord, carved into the stars and sealed in blood and magic.
Lycandra was the realm of wolves.
Silver moons never waned here; they hung heavy and endless, lighting forests that glowed with moonlit moss. Rivers cut through wild valleys, glittering with crushed moonstone. Wolves ruled these lands—creatures of instinct and devotion, shifting on four legs with the pulse of magic in their veins. Pack law shaped life, and Alphas led with absolute authority, their howls echoing across the canopies.
But wolves weren’t alone.
Beside them rose Lycan’Dra, the crown’s domain.
If Lycandra was instinct, Lycan’Dra was discipline—white marble cities, obsidian towers, runes spilling silver light across the skyline. Lycans lived here: stronger, faster, sharper than any wolf born beyond their borders. They shifted onto two legs—towering beasts with claws and fangs, minds untouched by frenzy. They were generals, tacticians, rulers. From the High Seat, the Lycan Kings governed both Lycans and wolves, their power descending from the First Shift.
Beyond their dominion stretched Valoria, the Land of Magic.
Eternal twilight bathed the skies. Rivers of starlight cut across horizons. Trees shimmered with living enchantments. Here ruled the fae—High, Shadow, Dawn, and Dusk Courts locked in fragile peace. Their magic threaded through every realm, stabilizing the wards, binding bonds, weaving the spells that kept the Accord from unraveling.
From Valoria came the sigils—markings carved by every race.
Wolves, Lycans, dragons, humans—any creature could channel their own magic into these symbols. Protection, healing, fire, illusion… The sigils could do almost anything. But no matter who wielded them, their power always bent to the wielder’s species: shifters enhancing shifts, fae weaving glamour, dragons bending flame.
Farther still, across storm-choked seas, lay Drakonis.
A land of scaled kings, where volcanoes bled fire and mountains roared with ancient thunder. Dragons ruled the skies—massive shadows blotting out the sun, their roars shaking the world. Beneath, basilisks slid through molten tunnels and hydras waited in frozen cliffs. Fire was Drakonis’s heartbeat, its rulers claiming dominion through fear. Yet even dragons bowed to the Accord, knowing unchecked rage would scorch every realm.
And at the edges of everything sprawled the Obsidian Wilds—
A realm with no crown. No borders. No laws.
Manticores hunted blood-soaked plains, krakens churned black seas, and the land itself shifted like a living beast. When the wards weakened, its monsters crossed into the other realms. Some were slain. Some were captured. Some were never seen again.
For centuries, the realms stayed separate but bound.
The Accord let their people travel, settle, fall in love across borders. Interspecies marriages were permitted—even blessed. And the rare, unstoppable pull of fated mates crossed bloodlines with abandon.
But no hybrids were ever born of those unions.
A child was always one or the other—wolf or fae, dragon or human—never both.
The Moon, Sun, and the stars guarded those lines even as love blurred them.
And so the realms held their balance.
Wolves shifted.
Lycans ruled.
Fae enchanted.
Dragons burned.
Humans built.
All carved sigils. All strengthened wards.
Each magic stayed tied to its race.
But balance is fragile.
When magic faltered, the wards cracked. Shadows leaked from the Wilds. Monsters crossed borders that were never meant to break. Prophecies rose again—whispers of a choice, a war, and a wolf unlike any other.
A wolf not bound by the Moon’s choosing.
One the goddess herself had overlooked.
And like all endings worth telling, this story doesn’t begin with a king, or a war, or a crown.
It begins with a girl.
A girl who believed she had never been chosen.
