Chapter 3 3

Sarah stood at the edge of the glade long after the others had dispersed, her skin still tingling from the aftershock of the vision. The golden glow in her eyes had faded, but the memory clung to her like smoke.

That name... Seraphiel.

She'd never heard it before, but it felt carved into her soul.

"Come," Damien said beside her. "There's more I need to show you."

She hesitated. "What was that? The fire... the woman-was that real?"

"Real enough," he said. "Bloodline echoes don't lie. You saw through the eyes of one of your ancestors. Likely Seraphiel herself."

Sarah followed him in silence, down a hidden path that led deep beneath the fortress-far below the stone halls and training grounds. The torchlight flickered along the walls, revealing ancient runes etched into the rock, their meanings long forgotten by most.

"I thought you said I wasn't directly descended from the First Fang," she said.

"You're not," Damien answered. "But Seraphiel was."

She stopped walking. "So... what does that make me?"

He turned to face her fully, shadows casting sharp angles across his face. "It makes you the last surviving bearer of her line. The others are dead. Hunted. Erased by those who fear what the Primal blood can do."

"And you don't?" she asked, half daring, half pleading.

"I fear what happens if it's left uncontrolled."

They reached a sealed chamber, its entrance guarded by twin wolf statues, mouths open in a silent snarl. Damien pressed his palm to a carved symbol, and with a deep groan, the stone door slid open.

Inside, the air was colder, ancient.

The chamber was circular, its floor etched with a massive sigil that pulsed with faint light. Along the walls were artifacts-claws preserved in amber, rusted weapons, a broken crown.

And at the center stood a pedestal.

Resting atop it was a small obsidian dagger, curved like a wolf fang.

Sarah approached it cautiously. "What is this place?"

"A memory vault," Damien said. "Every Alpha King of the Bloodwood keeps one. It holds the remnants of our history-what little we've managed to keep hidden from the Council."

She glanced at him. "The Lycan Council?"

His jaw flexed. "They're not just elders. They're gatekeepers. They decide what truths are too dangerous to let survive. Which bloodlines are too wild. Too... different."

Sarah stared down at the dagger. She could feel it humming beneath her skin, as though it recognized her.

"This belonged to Seraphiel," Damien said. "It was the weapon she used to wound Alareth when he turned on the gods."

Her breath hitched. "The First Fang..."

"Before he was cursed, he was revered. Then he grew hungry for immortality. The gods stripped him of his name and branded his children. Seraphiel turned against him. Her blood was the last clean drop in a poisoned line."

Sarah reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the dagger.

The room trembled with energy.

The sigil on the floor flared to life. Runes glowed. The twin statues shuddered.

A voice-female, ancient, layered in echoes-whispered in Sarah's ear:

"You are the fire born of ash. The last howl before the end. Rise, and remember me."

She staggered back, the voice fading.

Damien steadied her, brows drawn tight. "What did you hear?"

"She spoke to me," Sarah whispered. "She knew me."

Damien exhaled. "Then there's no doubt. You are her heir."

Silence stretched between them.

Sarah broke it. "So what now? You train me to become some... warrior queen? Or sacrifice me to the gods to stop whatever's coming?"

"Neither," Damien said. "But we're running out of time. The Council knows you're alive."

She stiffened. "What?"

"They sent a raven this morning. Word spreads fast when someone lights up the ancestral web. They'll come for you. They'll brand you a threat. They won't stop until you're dead-or worse, locked in one of their sanctified vaults, your magic drained to fuel their politics."

Sarah stepped away from the pedestal, anger slowly rising like heat under her skin. "So I'm a weapon. A relic. A problem to be managed. Again."

"No," Damien said. "You're a reckoning."

She looked up at him sharply.

His voice was low, rough with something close to reverence. "They tried to erase your kind. But you survived. That's more than legacy. That's power."

Sarah turned her gaze to the glowing runes on the floor. Something inside her-deep and primal-howled. Not in fear, but in fury.

For the first time, she didn't suppress it.

She let it echo through her chest, let it rise.

Later that night, Sarah stood alone on the balcony of the fortress. The moon hung low, clouds scattering across its surface like ghosts. She traced the bandage around her wrist, thinking of the mark beneath it-the one that had glowed gold when everything fell apart.

She wasn't afraid of it anymore.

Not entirely.

From behind her, a soft footstep.

"I figured you'd be up here," said Brynn, now dressed in a hunter's cloak.

Sarah didn't turn. "Came to challenge me again?"

"Came to tell you we got scouts back from the northern ridge. Council hunters. Three of them. Marked with the sigil of the High Wolf."

Sarah tensed. "How far?"

"Two days, maybe less."

Brynn stepped beside her. "We've faced them before. But never with a Spark on our side."

Sarah looked at her. "Is that what I am now?"

"You're more than that," Brynn said. "You're a storm."

And when Sarah looked back out at the moon, her reflection in the glass shimmered-not just a girl anymore. But something ancient, waking.

The fortress didn't sleep. Guards rotated their patrols, torches flickered along the outer walls, and in the distance, the forest whispered secrets no one dared listen to. But Sarah lay awake, her body still, her mind roaring.

The voice in the vault-Seraphiel's-echoed in her thoughts.

You are the fire born of ash. The last howl before the end.

What did it mean? Was it metaphor, prophecy... or a warning?

She rolled onto her side, staring at the thin lines of moonlight spilling through her window. Sleep wouldn't come, not with the power humming under her skin like a second heartbeat.

She couldn't deny it anymore.

Something inside her had changed-awakened-and it wasn't going back to sleep.

By dawn, Sarah was already on the training grounds.

She needed movement. Noise. Something to drown out the thunder inside her.

Brynn met her there again, this time tossing a dagger into the air before catching it effortlessly.

"You don't waste time," she said, nodding at Sarah's stance.

Sarah shrugged. "I don't have time to waste."

Brynn grinned. "Good. Then let's stop pretending you're fragile."

They trained hard, their blades clashing, feet kicking up dust. Sarah moved with more confidence now, her body no longer foreign. She began to feel the rhythm of combat, the dance of give and take. Her instincts sharpened, her footwork cleaner.

"Again!" Brynn barked after she knocked Sarah down.

Sarah spat dust, rolled to her feet, and lunged.

Their fight drew attention. Warriors paused to watch. No one jeered this time. No one whispered doubts. They watched with quiet respect.

By midmorning, her limbs burned, but she welcomed it. Pain made her feel real.

Suddenly, a horn blasted from the watchtower.

Three short notes-urgent, piercing.

The crowd stilled. Brynn swore.

"Scouts," she said. "They're here."

Within minutes, the fortress transformed.

Walls were reinforced. Guards doubled at the gates. Damien stood at the top of the stone steps, issuing orders with cool precision.

Sarah approached, heart pounding.

"What's happening?"

Damien glanced at her. "They arrived faster than expected. Three riders from the Council's Order. They bear the sigil of judgment."

"They came for me," she said quietly.

He didn't deny it. "They'll ask for a formal inspection. Maybe request to 'escort' you to neutral grounds. It's a trap."

"What happens if I refuse?"

"You won't have to," Damien said. "I will."

The Council hunters arrived at noon.

Clad in black armor with silver trim, they dismounted like wraiths. The leader, a woman with a star-shaped scar over one eye, stepped forward.

"I am Warden Selene of the High Order," she said. "We've come for the marked one."

Sarah stood behind Damien, her pulse racing.

Selene's eyes locked onto her. "You carry a cursed bloodline. You are to be taken to Eldhollow for evaluation."

Damien stepped forward. "Under the Treaty of Wilds, she is under my protection. You have no authority here."

Selene's lips curled. "Treaties are fragile things, Alpha Knights. She lit the ancestral web-do you know how many bloodlines trembled when her mark burned gold?"

"She is not a threat," Damien said. "She's a survivor."

"She's a spark," Selene snapped. "And sparks become fire."

Silence.

Then Sarah moved forward, brushing past Damien.

"I'm not going with you," she said clearly.

Selene raised a brow. "You would refuse a direct summons from the Council?"

"I would," Sarah said. "Because I know what happens to people who do. They vanish."

Selene's face darkened. "You don't understand the power you're playing with."

"Maybe not," Sarah replied, "but I'd rather die free than be caged again."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Selene turned to Damien. "You'll regret this."

"We already do," he said, eyes hard. "But not because we chose to protect her."

The riders mounted again and rode off, vanishing into the mist like ghosts.

But the warning was clear.

The Council would return.

That night, Sarah sat alone by the training ring. The flames of the torches danced before her, shadows playing across her face.

Damien joined her quietly, dropping a waterskin beside her.

"You did well," he said. "You stood your ground."

"They'll come back."

"Yes."

"Next time, they won't bring words."

"No," Damien said softly. "They'll bring war."

Sarah swallowed hard.