Chapter 3 3

The council hall was suffocating. Thick stone walls. Heavy air laced with tension. The scent of too many wolves packed into one room.

Annabelle sat at the edge of the gathering, half-hidden in shadow, as Alpha Alfred Stephens addressed the Crescent Vale elders. His voice was calm but razor-sharp, each word clipped with purpose.

"We received the body this morning," he said, holding up the bloodstained parchment for all to see. "The rogue symbol was carved into his chest. They know Annabelle Lowe is alive. And they're not going to stop."

A low murmur rippled through the elders.

One, a grizzled wolf named Elder Thorne, leaned forward. "You're asking us to go to war for a woman no one here fully trusts."

Alfred's jaw tightened. "I'm not asking. I'm warning you what's coming. War is inevitable-whether we invite it or not."

Another elder, softer-voiced but no less skeptical, spoke up. "She's not one of us, Alfred. She's an outsider. We don't know her history-what if she's bringing this down on us for a reason?"

Annabelle's spine straightened.

She rose slowly to her feet, ignoring the flickers of surprise. Her notepad was already in her hand.

She stepped into the firelight and wrote:

I didn't ask to be hunted. I didn't ask to be bonded to your Alpha. I didn't choose to lose my voice or my pack. But I'm here. I'm alive. And I will fight for this land if you let me.

She held up the page. Silence rippled across the room.

And then Alfred stepped beside her.

"She's stronger than most wolves here," he said coldly. "And she has more to lose."

Elder Thorne frowned. "So, what do you propose?"

"A blood oath," Alfred said.

Annabelle turned toward him in shock. He continued, "She'll swear loyalty to this pack- publicly, by moonlight-and I'll invoke the ancient rite of protection. Anyone who harms her will answer to me."

Murmurs exploded again.

"You'd bind yourself to her with a blood tie?" Elder Thorne asked, incredulous.

"I already am."

The words dropped like a stone in water. And no one argued.

-

That night, under the full moon, the pack gathered in the sacred circle of stone-a ring of ancient monoliths atop the ridge. Torches burned around them, casting dancing shadows against the snow. The air pulsed with magic-old, primal, heavy with the weight of thousands of years of wolfkind tradition.

Annabelle stood in the center. Alfred approached her with a ceremonial blade in one hand, a silver chalice in the other.

"Do you, Annabelle Lowe," he began, "swear loyalty to Crescent Vale and its people? Will you guard its land, honor its blood, and stand beside its Alpha-even unto death?"

She nodded, gaze steady.

Then she wrote: I swear it. Alfred sliced his palm with the blade and let his blood drip into the chalice. Then he handed her the knife.

Her hand trembled slightly as she cut across her own palm. The pain grounded her. She let her blood mingle with his. Then together, they drank.

The oath was sealed. A shimmer of energy surged through the circle- recognition from the land itself. The wolves around them let out low howls of approval.

Annabelle swayed slightly, the bond thrumming stronger than ever. Alfred caught her before she fell.

"You're one of us now," he said softly.

-

But peace was fleeting. The next morning, a scout returned from the eastern border-bloody, half-conscious.

"The rogues... they've allied with the Blackthorn remnants," he gasped before collapsing.

Gasps filled the strategy hall. Alfred stood frozen, his hands clenched at his sides. The name Blackthorn echoed like a curse.

Annabelle's pulse quickened.

Blackthorn.

That was the name of Alfred's former Luna. The mate he'd lost in battle. The pack that once betrayed his trust and turned on his rule.

Now they were back-and helping the same rogues that had hunted her since childhood.

Alfred's voice was steel. "Prepare every able-bodied wolf. Fortify the borders. Triple the patrols."

Annabelle scribbled quickly: What do they want?

"They want what they've always wanted," Gavin muttered. "Power. Land. Blood."

"But this time," Alfred added, "they want her too."

He looked at Annabelle.

"Because if they control her, they control the legacy she carries. And the wolves who remember her father's rule will follow."

Annabelle's blood went cold. They want to use me to take over.

"Yes," Alfred said. "And we can't let that happen."

-

For the next three days, the pack prepared for war. Annabelle trained until her muscles burned. Rhea drilled her in daggers and close-range combat. She practiced until her fingers blistered, until her knees gave out, until the nightmares faded into sweat and fury. But her wolf still wouldn't shift. No matter how hard she tried.

She could feel it now-closer, stirring, trying. But something blocked her.

Fear.

Memory.

Pain.

The day before the expected attack, Alfred found her in the clearing behind the barracks. She was alone, panting, her hands bloodied from punching the training posts.

"I can't shift," she rasped, tears forming in her eyes.

He stepped forward. "You don't need to shift to fight. But you will. When it matters, you will."

What if I don't? What if I freeze?

"Then I'll stand in front of you."

She looked at him.

"I don't care if you never shift," he said, voice low. "You're still mine."

And for once, she let the tears fall. Not because she was weak. But because someone finally saw her strength.

-

That night, the battle came. A howl split the night air. The warning bell rang from the east. Rogues poured from the trees like smoke and shadow, their snarls echoing through the hills. They were fast. Vicious. Bloodthirsty. But Crescent Vale was ready.

Alfred led the charge, his wolf form massive-midnight black with eyes that burned like fire. Gavin, Rhea, and the rest followed. Annabelle stood at the inner gate, blade in hand. When the first rogue lunged, she didn't flinch.

She fought.

Fast. Focused.

Every move was instinct. Until she saw him. The man leading the charge. Golden eyes. A jagged scar across his jaw. She remembered him. He'd held her down while her home burned. He'd dragged her mother from the cottage. He was the one who whispered her father's name before slicing his throat.

The world tilted. She lunged at him. They collided in the snow, blades flashing.

He laughed. "Still alive, little mutt?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Because in that moment-when his knife slashed her side, when blood gushed from the wound, when her pain ignited like wildfire- Her wolf came roaring back. Bones cracked. Muscles snapped. And then, she shifted. Not like a human becoming a beast. But like a queen reclaiming her crown. Her coat was pure white, her eyes silver-fire.

And when she attacked, the rogue didn't laugh again. He didn't even scream. She left him broken in the snow. And when she turned to the battlefield, her howl echoed across the valley-powerful, pure, and unmistakably hers. Alfred heard it. And for the first time since his first Luna died... He smiled.

-

The battlefield had turned silent. Not the kind of silence that followed a victory celebration- but the stunned, awe-struck silence that descended like a veil when something ancient stirred in the soul of every wolf present.

Annabelle stood at the center of the carnage, her newly-shifted white wolf panting, blood spattered across her flanks, her silver eyes scanning what was left of the rogues' charge. The enemy had started to retreat the moment she'd changed. Her power wasn't just strength-it was legacy. And everyone could feel it in the earth beneath their paws.

No ordinary wolf had ever shifted like that. She didn't just transform- she had ascended.

Alfred's wolf padded forward through the debris of battle, his golden eyes locked on hers. He was huge, dark as midnight, his fur stained with blood, but he moved with reverence. Slowly. Cautiously.

She turned toward him, instinct guiding her body. They met nose to nose in the snow, the breath between them steaming in the cold.

Then, he bowed his head. And so did every wolf behind him.

Dozens of Crescent Vale warriors shifted back into human form and dropped to one knee, their heads lowered.

Even the elders.

Annabelle remained in her wolf form, stunned. Her instincts warred with her thoughts. Was this what her father had once been? A ruler not by decree, but by the power that flowed in his blood-and now hers?

A memory rose from the deep: her father kneeling in the snow before a crescent-shaped altar, whispering a vow in an old language. A symbol etched in silver behind him. The mark of her lineage wasn't just a myth. It was a call. And she had answered it.

-

Later that night, the dead were burned in silence. The Crescent Vale pack had won the battle, but the cost had been steep-five warriors dead, another twelve injured. Still, morale was high. Because they hadn't just survived.

They'd risen.

Annabelle stood alone near the edge of the pyres, wrapped in a long cloak. Her side still throbbed where she'd been slashed, but the pain was fading fast-almost too fast. Whatever power had awakened in her... it was changing everything.

Alfred found her there, his face drawn but soft.

"You saved lives tonight," he said quietly.

She nodded and held up her notepad with trembling hands.

I didn't know I could shift like that.

"You didn't just shift, Annabelle." He stepped closer, his voice low. "You summoned a bloodline that hasn't walked this earth in over a century. That was no ordinary transformation."

What does that mean for me? For us?

He stared at her for a long moment.

"It means your enemies will come harder now. But so will your allies."

She frowned. Allies?

"There are packs who remember your father. Some still loyal to his house. If word spreads that his daughter lives, that she carries his mark-some may rally to you."

I don't want power. I just want peace. He touched her arm gently. "Then you'll have to fight for it."

She turned her gaze to the flames, her thoughts as restless as the wind. What if I can't be what they need?

"You already are."

-

The days following the battle were filled with strategy meetings, wound-tending, and whispers. Whispers about the white wolf.

Some wolves bowed when Annabelle passed. Others avoided her, unsure whether to fear or revere her. The pack's children watched her with wide, curious eyes.

She was becoming legend before she could even grasp her truth. Alfred did what he could to shield her from the weight of it. He took over most of the diplomatic duties, meeting with messenger wolves from neighboring territories while she recovered. But Annabelle knew it was only the beginning. On the third day, a raven arrived. A scroll tied to its leg, sealed with black wax. Alfred opened it and read in silence.

Annabelle waited.

He passed it to her.

To the Alpha of Crescent Vale, And the wolf who bears the blood of Lowen:

We see you.

We remember what your line destroyed. We remember the fire you brought to our borders and the lies your father spoke. We are coming to finish what we started. You have three nights to surrender the girl. Or we will tear your lands apart.

-High Alpha Varkos, Bloodfang War Council

Annabelle's hands trembled as she lowered the scroll. They know who I am.

"They always did," Alfred said darkly.

She met his gaze. What will we do?

He straightened. "We do what we've always done. We fight. But this time... we prepare to end it."

How?

"By uniting the old blood."

-

That evening, a call went out. Alfred sent riders to the edges of the north and west, calling on ally packs who once respected the House of Lowen-asking for unity under a cause greater than Crescent Vale.

Annabelle wasn't just the Alpha's Luna now. She was becoming a symbol. And symbols had power. Power that could lead to peace-or paint a target even larger than before. As she stood in the tower window, watching the messengers ride out into the twilight, Annabelle whispered her first words in weeks. Soft. Broken. But real.

"I will not run again."

Behind her, Alfred heard her. And silently, he made his own vow. He would burn the world before he let her fall.