The Bloodbound Prophecy

Seraphina-Darkmoon Rise

The wind howled across the scorched hills of Ashenreach as the blood moon bled into the sky, casting a crimson glow over the broken altar where the High Witches gathered. Lightning cracked the heavens in defiance, splitting the sky as if the gods themselves warred above.

In the center of a sacred circle, twelve witches chanted in unison, their voices a haunting melody of old magic. Runes etched in obsidian flared to life around them, pulsing with dark energy that shivered across the air like a living thing. At their feet lay a woman -naked, pale, her body trembling in the grip of labor.

She screamed.

But this was no ordinary birth.

Seraphina's mother, a low-blood witch named Elira, had vanished months ago, abducted by a shadow she could never name. Now she lay upon the altar, bound by threads of moonlight and magic, her belly unnaturally swollen with the child the gods had chosen.

The wind screamed again, and the ground trembled as something ancient pushed its way into the world.

"Hold her!" barked Morgana, her violet eyes gleaming beneath her obsidian hood. "The child is coming!"

Elira's eyes rolled back, white and sightless, as a shadow moved through her veins. Her skin glowed, then cracked, thin lines of fire racing across her chest. Blood spilled from her mouth, but she did not die. Not yet. The gods had claimed her body as a vessel and they would not let it fail.

The first cry echoed like thunder, not from the babe-but from the heavens.

Then she emerged.

Not wet and fragile like human babes, but calm. Silent. Eyes wide and glowing like burning amethyst. Her hair was the color of midnight with streaks of silver. Her breath misted in the air like frost.

Seraphina.

The child blinked once. Then twice. And when her tiny lips parted, the witches fell silent. A wave of heat burst from her body, and the protective runes shattered, exploding into black sparks.

One of the witches collapsed, screaming. Another burst into flames.

"She bears the fire," Morgana whispered, awe and fear warping her voice. "The gods have made her of flame and ash."

The infant looked at her mother's body and then cried. A single, piercing sound that shattered the silence and trembled the trees.

Morgana stepped forward, gathering the child in a cloak spun of woven shadow. Her coven sisters trembled in her wake.

"Raise her in secret," she commanded. "She will be our weapon... or our ruin."

In the distance, the blood moon flickered then began to wane.

***

Lyra-The Fangborn Howl

The forests of Blackfang Keep were silent the night Lyra was born. Too silent.

No wolves howled. No wind stirred the leaves. Even the stars seemed to hold their breath.

In the heart of the forest, beneath a canopy of ancient pines, a cave hidden by thorn and ice glowed with a strange silver light. Within, a midwife knelt beside a she-wolf in labor her fur matted with blood, her growls echoing like thunder.

But this was no ordinary she-wolf.

She was Kaela, first daughter of the Blackfang Alpha, and her mate had died the night she conceived. Torn to pieces by vampires in the old war. She'd vanished after his death, only to reappear, pregnant and mad-eyed, claiming the gods had spoken to her beneath the full moon.

"They said she would come with fire in her breath," Kaela rasped, her human form flickering in and out as pain tore through her. "With blood in her howl. They said she would change everything."

The midwife tried to hush her, to ease her screams, but Kaela clamped her jaw shut and roared-an animal cry that sent birds into the sky miles away.

Then came the scent.

Not of wolf.

Not of man.

Something older.

Lyra slid into the world in a burst of silver light, slick with blood, silent as a ghost.

Her eyes were pitch black. Her tiny hands were curled into fists. And her skin shimmered faintly beneath the firelight, as though something inside her struggled to break through.

"She does not cry," the midwife whispered, chilled.

Kaela smiled through her tears. "She doesn't need to. She's listening."

Outside, the silence broke.

A single wolf howled.

Then another. And another.

Soon the forest sang with the voices of the Blackfang Pack, all of them raising their cries to the moon as Lyra opened her eyes.

And howled.

It wasn't the sound of a child. It was the call of war. Of prophecy. The cave shook, stones rattling down from the ceiling as Lyra's cry pierced the night and echoed across the valleys of Silvermoor.

She had arrived. And the world would never be the same.

Later That Night...

Above the realm of mortals, the gods watched.

Two stars flared into life on the celestial map -one burning violet, the other silver.

"They are born," whispered Elandor, god of balance.

"Too late for peace," muttered Rithen, god of war.

"Or just in time for ruin," said Aelira, goddess of fate, her lips curling into a knowing smile.

They raised their hands as one, weaving the threads of destiny tighter around the two newborns.

One would be bound to a beast.

The other to a predator.

Both would be torn between loyalty and lust, hate and hunger.

And from their touch, kingdoms would fall.