To the Moonspire Isles
556 Words
They told her the journey would take three days by land and one by water.
They were wrong.
It took five.
Because the land fought her.
The trees whispered doubt with every step. The rivers tried to pull her under. Even the moon, her lifelong guide, remained hidden behind clouds. But she walked on—cloaked in soot and firelight, blades at her back, memory in her bones.
Niamh didn't tell anyone she was leaving.
Not Kaelen. Not Tamsin. Not even her pack.
The Firemoon Glen was her blood—but the answers she needed lay beyond the flame. And the Trial awaited no one.
By the sixth night, she reached the Mistwater Shore—a ghost-still lake that stretched wide into the horizon. Beyond it, half-shrouded in fog, the jagged Moonspire Isles rose like broken teeth from the sea.
Each isle glowed faintly with lunar energy—one for each of the old clans, though only three still remained untouched by darkness.
As she stood at the water's edge, a figure appeared in a small boat carved from ashwood and bone.
The ferryman.
Face hidden by a wolf-bone mask, he said nothing. Just raised a hand toward her and waited.
She stepped aboard.
The crossing was silent.
The lake was mirror-smooth, reflecting not the stars—but shadows moving beneath the surface.
Niamh said nothing, but her pulse quickened. She could feel it—the pressure in the air, the watching eyes, the pull of ancient magic. Her fire flickered low, like a candle resisting wind.
Then the isles rose to meet her.
The Moonspire Temple
The boat touched land on the central isle—the sacred one, where the Trial of the Firemoon was held.
Stone ruins stood tall among moss and moonflowers. A spire of marble coiled with silver veins reached into the sky. Around its base, stone wolf statues circled an altar etched with glowing runes.
Waiting there, cloaked in white and silver, stood the Moon-Priestess.
"Niamh Firemoon, Flameborn Alpha, Dreamt of Blood and Bone," she intoned. "You have come for the Trial."
"I have," Niamh said, stepping forward, fists clenched.
"Then choose your path."
The priestess raised a hand, and before Niamh, three archways shimmered into being—each one swirling with a different light.
The first glowed crimson, pulsing with heat and fire.
The second was silver, cold and sharp like the moon.
The third was black, edged with violet mist and pulsing faintly with something ancient and wrong.
"You may choose only one," the priestess said. "Fire, Moon, or Shadow."
Niamh's heart pounded. She could feel the Hollow King again—watching, smiling.
"Choose wrong... and I will wear your skin like a crown."
She stepped forward.
Toward the silver archway.
Not flame. Not shadow.
But the moon—cold, clear, eternal.
And stepped through.
She fell.
Not in body, but in spirit. The world twisted, roared, and then—
Silence.
She stood in a place that wasn't a place—
A field of white.
A sky of black.
A single moon hanging above.
And across from her...
Herself.
Or a version of her. Taller. Eyes glowing. Flames licking up her arms. The Firemoon in full bloom. Rage, power, glory.
But its smile... was not hers.
"You want answers, Niamh?" the double whispered.
"Then burn for them."
It lunged.
- Writer
