The Fallen Moon: Predestined Sin

Chapter 5: Beneath the Silver Oak

I woke up before dawn.

The door of the silver cage was slightly ajar, the iron bolt hanging to one side. By the entrance rested a bowl of hot porridge, half a slice of dark rye bread, and a tiny dish of salt.

In werewolf territory, salt was a hard currency. Warriors were rationed a tiny pouch each month, and salt was never given to prisoners of war. This wasn't an oversight—someone had gone out of their way to retrieve it from the armory, broken off a small piece, and placed it beside my breakfast.

I poured the salt into the porridge, slowly stirring it in. After finishing my breakfast, the escorting guard still hadn't arrived. I pushed the door open and stepped out.

The camp was waking up in the morning mist. On the training grounds, young werewolves were sparring, shirtless, the muffled thuds of their fists and kicks ringing clearly through the fog. They saw me—their fists slowed for a split second, and their eyes trailed me for over a dozen paces before looking away. No one blocked my path, no one came near, and no one spoke.

Passing the stone well, I saw the old witch doctor sitting on her stone bench, grinding herbs. She glanced up at me, her bone bells jingling softly.

"The silver oaks are north of the camp. Follow the narrow path behind the stables, turn left at the fork, walk for fifteen minutes, and turn right when you catch the scent of flowers." She paused. "Do not touch the flowers at the roots of the tree. They are planted for the dead."

I stared at her. She didn't look at me. The bone bells jingled softly on her wrist—a muffled chime in the morning mist.

The path was blanketed in pine needles, making my footsteps soft and silent. After turning right, the fog began to thin, and the air grew sweeter. And then, I saw it.

The silver oak was grander than I had imagined. Its trunk was so thick it would have taken a dozen men to clasp their hands around it, and its silver-white leaves swayed gently in the morning breeze, rustling softly like some ancient language. Sunlight filtered through the foliage, casting dappled patterns over a blanket of Moondrop flowers. Their white petals shimmered in the shadows, looking like shattered pieces of the moon.

At the roots of the tree sat a headstone. The chisel marks along the edges were still fresh, dating back no more than ten years. It was carved with a line of ancient werewolf script. I couldn't read the characters, but resting before the stone was a fresh Moondrop flower, the dew on its petals still wet. He had been here last night.

I knelt down, studying the carved script. The word for mother was the same in any tongue. Then there was moon. And then—

Return.

Not departure. It was: She departed when the moon returned.

"You followed me," I said, not turning around.

"You are my prisoner," Caine Bloodspear's voice came from a few paces away. "I said a prisoner could visit the silver oaks. I never said I wouldn't follow if you came."

I turned around. He stood beneath an old pine, his black coat blending almost seamlessly with the shadows. The morning light filtered over his face, his eyes a dark gold—no longer amber, no longer calculating, but containing something far more weary and unguarded.

"This is your mother," I said.

He remained silent.

"The story the witch doctor told—the princess on the pyre. That wasn't your mother; she is your nightmare. Since childhood, you watched your father fight the entire world for her, only to watch her die for him in the end. That is why you publicly called me a curse. That is why you decreed that no one step within three paces of me—it wasn't a ban meant for the pack. It was a ban meant for yourself."

He remained silent.

"You did exactly what your father did back then. You stood before the Council of Elders for me, defied Cole for me, and broke the very ban you set for yourself for me. Caine Bloodspear—you aren't afraid of the Moon Goddess. You are afraid that you are turning into your father."

He looked down at me. The muscle in his jaw twitched. His hand hung by his side, clenching and unclenching.

"My father was a great Alpha."

"But he let his mate die."

The words cut like a blade. The dark gold in his eyes flared, turning razor-sharp. "He did not let her die. That was her choice."

"Then why did you carve Return?" I turned toward the headstone. "You come here every night. Are you waiting for her answer—or are you waiting for the question you finally have the courage to ask?"

The wind died. The leaves fell quiet. His silence stretched like an entire winter.

"If she could do it over again," he finally spoke, his voice so quiet it was barely audible, "would she make a different choice?"

He knelt down, placing what he had been holding in his fist before the stone. It was a fresh Moondrop flower, dirt still clinging to its petals.

"I asked her for six years. She never answered," he said, standing up to face me. "But today—as you stood before the Council and said you would kill me if you had the chance—you made me realize something."

"What?"

"She wouldn't have made a different choice. Not because she didn't fear death, but because she chose." He paused.

"You didn't abandon your hatred because of the mark. Which means the mark and the choice are two different things."

For the first time, I had absolutely nothing to say.

The sun had fully risen now. The Moondrop flowers swayed gently before the headstone, the one he had just laid down joining the blanket of petals that had accumulated over the years.

"You said earlier that I did exactly what my father did," he said. "Not quite. My father gambled the survival of the entire pack on his mate's safety. I will not."

"Then what did you do?"

"I pulled you off the pyre, and then I hid the pyre away. Cole cannot find it. But no one else can come near it, either. Including me."

He slipped his hands into his pockets. The gesture didn't look like that of an Alpha—it looked like that of a man who didn't know how to end a conversation.

"Go back. The stables aren't going to clean themselves."

I turned and walked back toward the camp. After a dozen paces, his voice stopped me.

"Seline Ashton." This was only the second time he had called me by my full name. "You won't become my mother, because I won't become my father. I will not sacrifice the entire pack for a choice—nor will I sacrifice you."

I kept walking. When I passed the old witch doctor's stone bench, she was still grinding her herbs. Her bone bells chimed softly. This time, I understood—they were saying, you have found your answer.

No. I hadn't found an answer. But I had uncovered a far more terrifying truth: when Caine Bloodspear said he would not sacrifice the pack, nor would he sacrifice me, what he truly meant was—he would find a way to preserve both.

And if that way did not exist, he would forge one himself.

This man wasn't just protecting me. He was redefining his entire world just so he could fit me inside it.

And I was still thinking of how to kill him.

I walked back into the stables and picked up my shovel. The mark on my wrist burned. I looked down, watching the silver light pulse against my skin like a heartbeat, like a swinging pendulum, like some silent countdown.

An Ashton hunter does not grow soft toward her enemy.

But what if you are no longer the enemy? What if you are just another prisoner bound by the exact same chains? What if, before my blade can even strike, you have already bared your chest to me—



Then how the hell am I supposed to kill you?