Chapter 5 5

Snow fell in thick, steady flurries over Crescent Vale, blanketing the fortress in a deceiving calm. From atop the battlements, Annabelle scanned the treeline to the east, eyes sharp, shoulders tense beneath her heavy cloak. Each day that passed brought them closer to the Bloodfang attack. Each night, the dreams grew darker-memories clawing at her mind, of screams and fire, of her father's dying voice and the cold silence that had swallowed her childhood.

She was no longer that girl. She would not cower. But even a warrior knew fear. A horn blew once from the western watchtower, low and steady. Alfred's voice echoed behind her. "Scouts returning."

Annabelle turned as he climbed the steps beside her, snow melting against the shoulders of his coat. His gaze swept the forest with purpose, then flicked briefly to her.

"I didn't expect them until nightfall," he muttered.

A moment later, two wolves emerged from the trees-bloodied, limping, one of them half-shifted, barely holding form. The Crescent Vale guards pulled them inside the gate as Annabelle and Alfred rushed down to meet them.

"They're closer than we thought," one of the scouts rasped, clutching a deep gash in his abdomen. "They've split-flanking us from two sides. The southern ridge and the frost river bend."

Alfred's jaw clenched. "They're trying to divide our forces."

"They've brought more than rogues," the second scout added, blood smeared across his temple. "I saw the banner... the Blackthorn crest."

Annabelle froze.

Blackthorn.

The name was venom. A mark of betrayal etched in Crescent Vale history. Alfred's fists curled at his sides.

"Get them to the infirmary," he ordered. "Gavin, Rhea-war council. Now."

-

The war room was louder than usual. Alpha Killian of the Ironclaws slammed his fist onto the table. "Two-pronged attack? Cowards."

"Smart cowards," Rhea said, unfurling a fresh map. "They want to stretch our forces thin. Force us to retreat or split our strength."

"We should strike first," growled a Moonveil warrior. "Meet them at the ridge. Show them we're not prey."

"No," Alfred said firmly. "That's what they want. We leave the ridge undermanned, they'll cut off our return and flank the fortress."

He looked at Annabelle. "We hold the high ground. Let the Bloodfangs come to us."

She nodded, already writing on her pad. We use the ravine. Pull the lead wave in, collapse the pass. Gavin smirked. "Risky. Brutal. I like it."

"Then we lure them," Alfred said. "And we end this."

-

Preparations surged through the Vale like wildfire.

By nightfall, every warrior knew their station. Barricades were built along the ravine, trenches dug and camouflaged. Hidden archers readied flint-tipped arrows soaked in wolfsbane oil. Warriors lined the fortress wall, eyes fixed on the tree line, weapons in hand.

Annabelle stood at the center of the inner circle of defenders-her new armor laced in silver thread, her cloak bearing the crescent moon of her bloodline. She looked like no one's victim.

She looked like a Luna born of ash and vengeance.

Alfred approached in full battle gear, his dark cloak billowing behind him. "The scouts say they'll reach us by dawn."

Then let them come, she wrote.

He studied her for a long beat. "If something happens to me-"

Don't. Her handwriting was fierce.

"I need to say this, Belle."

Her breath hitched. He hadn't called her that before.

"If something happens to me," he said again, quieter this time, "I want you to keep fighting. Lead them. You're the Flame now. You carry something I never could. They'll follow you."

She shook her head, stepping forward until her hand rested flat over his heart. We survive this. Together. His eyes closed at her touch. And when he opened them, fire burned behind the gold.

-

Before dawn, the horn blew again. The wolves of Crescent Vale lined the ravine path in tense silence. The earth seemed to vibrate beneath their boots. The Bloodfangs had arrived. They came like shadows in the fog-hundreds of wolves, many half-shifted, some in brutal war forms. Their howls pierced the stillness. Banners flew behind them-dark red, marked with claw and flame. And among them... the Blackthorn crest.

Alfred stepped to the edge of the front lines, flanked by Gavin and Rhea. He held up a hand, halting the front wave. A single figure broke from the Bloodfang line and approached. He was tall. Lean. Smiling. The kind of smile that promised death. High Alpha Varkos.

"I was beginning to think you'd run," he said coolly.

Alfred's voice was calm but deadly. "And miss the chance to bury you?"

Varkos's gaze swept the line-and landed on Annabelle.

He tilted his head.

"Well. The prodigal daughter herself. The last flame of House Lowe."

Annabelle didn't flinch. She stepped forward. Varkos laughed. "Tell me, girl... do you even know what your bloodline was built on? The blood your father spilled to rule?"

I know what he died to protect, she wrote, holding the note up.

"His pride?" Varkos sneered. "Or his secrets?"

Without another word, Alfred raised his hand. The signal. Archers loosed the first volley. And chaos erupted.

-

The battle began with fire. Arrows rained down like stars, lighting the Bloodfang ranks with burning streaks of silver and wolfsbane. The enemy surged forward, howling, only to fall into trenches filled with barbed spikes. The ravine became a death trap.

Annabelle moved like lightning, her blade singing, her wolf just beneath the surface, waiting.

Varkos charged for Alfred.

Gavin intercepted a wave of rogues, while Rhea led a group to collapse the eastern slope. Annabelle turned- and found herself face-to-face with a Blackthorn warrior. He wore her father's crest, blackened and desecrated.

He smirked. "He screamed, you know. When he died."

Something inside her snapped. The world blurred as she shifted mid-strike. Her white wolf collided with him in midair, and she didn't stop. She didn't hesitate. She didn't mercy. The Bloodfang forces faltered. Because where once there was a pack under siege... Now there was a Luna on fire.

-

Blood soaked the snow. The air pulsed with snarls, howls, and the clash of steel. Crescent Vale's forces held the line, but the Bloodfangs were relentless. They surged through the trenches, clawing over fallen comrades like mindless beasts. Annabelle tore through them.

Her white wolf gleamed beneath the moonlight- elegant and deadly. She moved like a spirit of vengeance, every strike measured, every leap laced with rage born of blood and betrayal. But the moment she tasted the blood of the Blackthorn warrior who taunted her father's name, she felt it - a pull in her chest. It wasn't just anger. It was the Flame.

Her wolf's eyes glowed with eerie silver light. A heat pulsed from her skin, as if the air around her shimmered with some ancient energy. As she stepped forward, her paw left a mark of searing frost on the ground. And those closest to her- friend and foe alike- felt it.

Power.

Pure and untamed.

A Bloodfang brute charged toward her, his maw open in a snarl. Before he could strike, the ground beneath him cracked open with a burst of force. Wind spiraled around her, and his body was thrown aside like a rag doll.

She shifted mid-lunge, landing in human form, eyes glowing, arms steady as she raised her blade. The Flame had awakened again, not just a flicker-but a blaze.

And it was hers now.

-

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Alfred and Varkos collided with a crash that split the silence of war.

Alpha against Alpha.

Claw against claw.

Varkos shifted into a massive black wolf with blood-red streaks down his snout. His form was cruel, twisted by dark magic. Alfred, as the Crescent Alpha, was taller, broader-but evenly matched in fury.

They clashed again and again, teeth snapping, claws raking flesh. Blood flew. But Alfred held the high ground, every strike fueled not just by duty-but by something deeper.

Annabelle.

Varkos snarled, "She'll burn like the rest of her cursed bloodline."

Alfred growled low, voice like thunder. "She is the reason you're losing."

And then he struck-

-hard and fast, knocking Varkos into a pile of crumbled stone. Before the dark Alpha could rise, Alfred leapt, pinning him down.

But Varkos grinned.

"You don't even know the truth, do you?"

Alfred's paw hovered at Varkos's throat.

"She's not the last Flame," Varkos whispered.

Before Alfred could demand more, an explosion rocked the northern edge of the field.

The Blackthorn traitors had lit one of the supply wagons on fire.

-

Annabelle turned at the blast, horror flashing through her as she spotted the black smoke rising. The ravine trembled under her feet.

Gavin's voice echoed through the chaos. "They've breached the northern wall!"

But Crescent Vale wouldn't crumble.

Not on her watch.

She sprinted toward the breach, her wolf running just beneath the surface of her skin, the Flame burning brighter. Every enemy in her path was cut down without pause.

She reached the wall and leapt-her body twisting midair, landing with a force that cracked the stone beneath her.

Dozens of Bloodfang rogues froze.

Annabelle stood alone, silver light bleeding from her eyes, a white flame rising around her.

And she spoke.

Her voice-silent for years-rang through the battlefield like a bell.

"This is our home. You will not take it."

The words echoed in the minds of every wolf present. And with them came a surge of raw power-radiating from her like a storm unleashed. The Flame answered her call.

The ground split in a wide arc, creating a chasm that divided the enemy ranks. A gust of wind tore through the battlefield, forcing every Bloodfang back a step. She wasn't just fighting for the Vale anymore.

She was the Vale.

The pack, feeling her power, howled in unison. Alfred felt it too. His wolf howled from the ravine, calling every loyal warrior to surge forward.

"NOW!" Gavin shouted. "PUSH THEM BACK!"

And the tide turned.

-

It was not a clean victory. The battle lasted until the first rays of sunlight broke through the storm- clouded sky. Dozens lay injured. A dozen more- dead. Blood stained the snow in red rivers.

But the Bloodfangs had retreated. Varkos had vanished into the smoke, wounded, humiliated- but not dead. The war was not over. But the first battle had been won.

-

Annabelle sat alone near the cliffs again, her hands bandaged, her face bruised, but her back straight. Alfred approached slowly, watching her in silence before sitting beside her.

"You spoke," he said gently.

She nodded, eyes on the horizon.

"I heard you, Belle. So did they."

Her voice was quiet. "It just... came out."

"It was time."

She turned toward him, her lips pressing into a soft, wry smile. "Now they won't stop expecting me to be a goddess."

He laughed. "You don't need to be one."

She tilted her head.

"You just need to be you."

Their hands met in the snow. Fingers twined. And in the distance, the pack howled-not in grief this time, but in victory.