CHAPTER 1 — THE PROPHECY OF RUIN
881 Words
The night she was born, the moon bled.
Screams tore through the Shadow Vale as the midwife stumbled backward,
eyes wide with terror, whispering the words that would damn a newborn:
“She carries the Ruin Mark… the witch who will unseat kings.”
The prophecy spread like wildfire.
Before Seraphine Vale could take her first breath, kingdoms were already
preparing to kill her.
***
Fifteen years later.
The forest burned behind her as she ran—bare feet slicing against roots,
lungs clawing for air. Hunters howled her name, their arrows hissing past
her ears. Every Shadow Witch had been slaughtered.
She was the last.
*Don’t stop. Don’t look back.*
But the ground trembled—an Alpha’s aura. No… two.
Twin heartbeats thundered from opposite sides of the clearing.
A snarl cut the night.
Then another—darker, lower, soaked in hunger.
She froze.
Two wolves stepped into the moonlight—one silver, one obsidian.
Identical eyes. Identical power.
And both locked entirely on her.
The silver wolf shifted first, bones cracking, skin forming flawless pale
flesh. He stood tall, bare, breath steaming, gaze burning gold.
“Mine,” he growled.
The black wolf shifted next—rougher, sharper, his aura violent enough to
shake leaves from branches.
“No,” he hissed. “She’s mine.”
Seraphine’s heart stopped.
Twin Alphas.
The cursed pair from the prophecy.
The kings destined to claim the witch who would destroy them.
Her power sparked—shadows licking at her fingertips, begging to be
unleashed. But running would mean death. Staying… might be worse.
The silver one reached her first.
His hand touched her cheek—warm, claiming, terrifying.
“We found you, little witch.”
The black one stepped closer, eyes feral with possession.
“And now the world burns.”
The moon bled the night Seraphine Vale was born.
Not silver. Not gold.
But a deep, bruised crimson—like the sky itself whispered a warning the world refused to hear.
Witches once believed every child of shadow arrived with a price.
But Seraphine’s birth carried two.
The first was a scream—raw, thunderous, splitting the midwinter wind as if the forest itself inhaled her soul. The second was silence—a deathly hush that sucked the warmth from every torch in the Vale manor, snuffing the flames into nothing.
Her mother whispered, “Shadow Witch…”
Her father whispered, “Run.”
But the prophecy had already branded her.
*When the moon turns red, the child of dust shall rise.
Hunted by kings. Desired by beasts.
Two crowns shall fall for her.
Two alphas shall burn for her.
And the world shall tremble beneath her shadow.*
The kingdom didn’t need time to fear her—they feared the idea of her.
A witch strong enough to bend darkness.
A girl powerful enough to end bloodlines older than dynasties.
So before Seraphine could even speak her name, assassins were sent.
Blades dipped in silver. Arrows laced with wolfsbane.
Magic crafted solely to erase her existence.
Her parents died guarding her cradle.
Her coven burned.
Her name became a whisper—a curse parents used to frighten misbehaving children.
*Don’t wander after dusk… or the Shadow Witch will take your eyes.*
But the Witch did not die.
She lived.
She learned to hide in the fractures between worlds.
She wrapped herself in silence and grew teeth sharper than fate itself.
For seventeen years she watched from the edges—unseen, unfelt, unclaimed.
Until tonight.
Tonight, the moon bleeds again.
The twin kingdoms gather beneath the black pines, their howls rising like a storm. Two armies. Two thrones. Two Alpha Kings carved from opposite fire.
Damian Blackthorn—born of the night, ruthless as winter.
Darius Blackthorn—born of war, wicked as a promise.
Brothers. Rivals.
Bound by blood.
Cursed by destiny.
Both raised with the same warning carved into their bones:
*When the moon bleeds,
she returns.
And she is yours to claim—
or kill.*
They smell her before they see her.
A witch’s scent—smoke, earth, moonfire—drifting through the forest like a forbidden prayer.
They do not know her name yet.
They do not know she has been haunting them, studying them, fearing them, longing for them in the darkness they call home.
But they know this:
Tonight, something old awakens.
Something hunted.
Something powerful enough to end every war they were born to fight.
A gust of wind blows through the clearing, and the alphas freeze.
An outline stands between the trees—small, hooded, barefoot on the frost.
Seraphine Vale steps forward, the shadows rippling behind her like a living crown.
In her right hand: a cracked spellbook.
In her left: fire made of night.
Her voice is quiet.
Deadly.
Beautiful.
“I didn’t choose this prophecy,” she whispers to the bleeding moon.
“But I will choose what burns next.”
Two alphas exhale.
Two destinies collide.
Two hearts tilt toward ruin.
The prophecy unfolds—not gently, but like a blade sliding across a throat.
And the world, for the first time in seventeen years, truly trembles.
Darkness surged behind her eyes.
Her Ruin Mark flared.
The air trembled.
Because fate wasn’t hunting Seraphine Vale.
**Fate had finally caught her.**
- Writer
