Power Bites Back
703 Words
Aria Pov
Power does not arrive gently.
It does not ask permission.
It takes.
I learned that the moment Nyxara lifted her hand and the last binding on my blood shattered.
The world screamed.
Not outside me—inside.
I collapsed to my knees as agony tore through my veins, silver fire racing through every part of me like it had been waiting centuries for this moment. I clawed at the stone floor, my scream ripping free, raw and unrestrained.
“Hold her,” someone shouted.
Hands gripped my arms, firm but careful, as if they were afraid I might break them without meaning to.
“I can’t—” My breath hitched violently. “Make it stop—!”
Nyxara’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and unyielding.
“No. You do not stop this. You survive it.”
Something deep inside me snapped.
Memories flooded me—not mine, not fully.
A woman crowned in shadow. A throne carved from obsidian. A wolf larger than mountains, eyes like eclipsed moons.
They caged us.
The voice was not spoken aloud.
It roared through my soul.
My back arched as bones cracked and shifted beneath my skin. The pain was unbearable—white, blinding, absolute. I tasted blood as my scream turned feral, something ancient clawing its way to the surface after a lifetime of silence.
“I won’t be small,” I sobbed through clenched teeth. “I won’t be nothing.”
Then rise, my wolf commanded.
The air detonated.
Magic ripped outward from my body, slamming into the chamber walls. Stone fractured. Torches shattered. Lycans were thrown back like leaves caught in a storm.
Nyxara did not move.
“Shift,” she said softly. “Claim yourself.”
I let go.
The transformation was violent—far worse than the stories. Muscle tore and reformed. My spine snapped, elongated. My senses exploded into color and scent and sound so overwhelming I nearly lost myself to it.
When the pain finally eased, I stood on four massive paws.
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
I lifted my head slowly, breath fogging the air.
I was enormous—towering over every wolf present. Midnight-black fur rippled with silver markings that glowed faintly beneath my skin: crowns, runes, claws etched by the Moon herself.
Royal marks.
Every Lycan in the room dropped to one knee.
Not by command.
By instinct.
I felt it—the pull, the awareness, the way their loyalty slid into place like it had always belonged there. It frightened me.
Nyxara approached, reverent but unafraid.
“You feel it,” she said. “Do not push it away.”
“I’m afraid,” I admitted, my voice echoing low and powerful in my own ears.
“As you should be,” Nyxara replied. “Power without fear creates tyrants.”
Something burned in my chest then.
The bond.
Lucien.
Pain slammed into me without warning—sharp, twisted, his. Sleeplessness. Guilt. Hunger. Regret so deep it tasted like blood.
I snarled, the sound shaking the chamber.
“He still feels me,” I growled.
“Yes,” Nyxara said. “And he always will.”
Images flashed through the bond—Lucien pacing his chambers, fists bloodied from punching stone walls, Selene’s scent cloying and wrong beside him. His jaw clenched as he whispered my name like a curse he couldn’t stop.
My wolf bared her fangs.
He broke us.
“He chose,” I said hoarsely. “He chose another.”
Nyxara’s gaze hardened. “Then let that choice haunt him.”
I lifted my head and howled.
The sound tore through the Obsidian Court and beyond, rolling across the cliffs and into the night. Hundreds—no, thousands—of voices answered.
A kingdom awakened.
When I shifted back, exhaustion hit me like a blade. Strong arms caught me before I fell. Nyxara steadied me, her grip firm.
“Rest,” she ordered. “What you’ve begun cannot be undone.”
As darkness claimed me, one last truth settled heavy in my bones:
Lucien Blackthorne had rejected an omega.
But the Moon had raised a Queen.
And when I finally faced him again—
I would not kneel.
- Writer
