Chapter 4 The Seer's Shadow

The scent of scorched earth lingered long after the battlefield fell silent.

Elara crouched beside the stone wall, her body still tingling from the shift. Muscles ached in places she didn't know existed. Her breathing came in short, ragged bursts, her silver eyes still glowing faintly in the fading moonlight.

She was still in her half-form-caught somewhere between wolf and woman.

And she couldn't shift back.

Fenric circled her, his fur matted with blood and ash. He said nothing at first, just observed with eyes that held too much worry for an alpha who never flinched.

"It'll pass," she whispered hoarsely, her voice half-growl.

Fenric finally spoke. "You held the form too long for your first true shift. That's rare."

"I had no choice."

"Exactly." He sat beside her, his human form slowly returning, bones cracking into place, skin reforming. "That's the dangerous part."

She forced herself upright, wobbling slightly.

Beyond them, the healers moved among the wounded, dragging bodies away from the gate. Smoke drifted from shattered towers. Duskvale had survived, but barely. And the Circle had left them with something far worse than fire or scars.

They had left them with a promise.

"I saw him," Elara said. "The Seer. I hit him full-force. He didn't even bleed."

Fenric's jaw tensed. "Because he's not just a man."

"Then what is he?"

Fenric paused. "A relic. From the era before packs, before we remembered what we were. He's not bound by blood. Not bound by time. The Circle uses him to execute destiny, not justice."

A chill spread through her limbs. "Why is he after me?"

"Because you are the one thing he doesn't understand. Moonblood hasn't surfaced in centuries. The last time it did, it nearly unraveled everything the Circle built."

She turned to face him. "Then tell me everything. Now. No more riddles."

Fenric met her gaze-and nodded once.

"There's an old story," he said. "Before the Council. Before the binding laws. There were primal wolves, ones who walked between forms like breathing. The Moonblood line came from them. But something changed. They started birthing hybrids-wolves who could hear thoughts, shape light, twist nature. The elders feared them. Called them unstable."

Elara's voice was barely audible. "And so they killed them."

"Yes. Hunted to extinction, or so they claimed. But some bloodlines hid in exile. Yours was one of them."

She felt it now-the memory of her mother's lullabies, songs sung in a language no one else understood, the flicker of power she had been forced to bury.

"My mother knew," Elara said.

"She did. And she paid for it."

Elara's fists clenched.

Before she could speak again, footsteps approached. A younger soldier-barely twenty-stopped before Fenric and saluted. His tunic was torn and scorched, but he stood tall.

"Sir, there's a message."

Fenric stood. "From who?"

The soldier hesitated. "From inside."

Both Elara and Fenric froze.

Duskvale's walls were built to keep threats out. An inside threat meant betrayal.

They gathered in the Council chambers by dusk. The city still smoldered, but the Forsaken leadership didn't wait for smoke to clear. Elara sat to the side, draped in a dark cloak, still trembling with residual magic. The moonstone at her neck now hung dull-its energy drained.

Fenric stood before the Council, flanked by two sentinel guards.

"The breach wasn't just strategic," he said. "It was surgical. The Circle knew where our wards were weakest. They knew our rotation shifts. Our eastern runes were disabled before the assault even began."

Councilor Ilven, a sharp-eyed woman with white hair braided in rings, leaned forward. "You're suggesting a traitor."

"I'm confirming one," Fenric replied. "There was a second set of tracks along the southern tunnels-leading in, not out. Someone signaled the Circle from beneath us."

The room erupted in murmurs.

Elara scanned the gathered faces. None looked shocked enough. Too many whispered like they already knew.

Finally, Councilor Varnan, a heavyset male with deep scars on his neck, barked, "Who do you suspect?"

Fenric paused. Then his gaze swept the room. "I suspect someone in this chamber gave them the keys."

Gasps.

Elara watched as glances shifted-too fast, too careful. She could smell fear now, could feel truth tightening in the air.

She stood. "Then let me question them."

The room went silent.

Ilven stared. "You?"

"You don't trust each other. But you fear me." She took a step forward. "Use that. Let me look them in the eyes. I'll know who lies."

Varnan laughed. "You think bloodline intuition makes you a seer?"

"No," she said calmly. "But it makes me dangerous."

The Council didn't agree-but they didn't stop her either.

That night, Elara walked the corridors of the keep alone, though she knew eyes watched her from every shadow. Her senses, now heightened, caught every breath, every lie whispered behind closed doors.

She stopped at the scribe's quarters. The one place that had access to guard rosters, rune mapping, and internal shift logs.

She found blood on the doorframe.

Her stomach turned.

Pushing the door open, she stepped inside.

The room was dark, scrolls half-burnt on the floor. Ink pooled near the desk. And in the center-

A body.

The scribe. Dead. His throat opened cleanly. No signs of a struggle.

Someone had silenced him.

Elara crouched beside the body. There was a symbol carved into the wood near his hand-tiny, almost missed.

Three rings crossing over a crescent moon.

The Circle's seal.

And beneath it, a name.

Thorne.

Elara's breath caught.

She knew that name.

Thorne was a shadow-walker. A rogue who once served under Fenric before defecting years ago. His betrayal had nearly cost them a fortress in the north.

And now he was here.

Suddenly, the air chilled. Her neck prickled.

She turned-

Too late.

A hand clamped over her mouth. Cold steel touched her side.

"Move and you bleed," a voice rasped into her ear.

She didn't.

The figure pulled her back into the dark hallway, moving with deadly precision. The scent-ash, pine, and something metallic-wasn't wolf.

Not fully.

They moved down the passage like ghosts, deeper into the forgotten levels of the keep.

Then they stopped.

The figure spun her around and let go.

Elara slammed him against the wall before he could vanish.

But he smiled.

He was older than she expected-late thirties, with copper eyes and a jagged scar running down his cheek. His left arm bore a Circle brand-but it had been burned over.

"You're Thorne," she hissed.

"I was," he said.

"Why did you kill the scribe?"

"I didn't. I came to warn him. Someone got there first."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm not loyal to the Circle anymore," Thorne said. "And because the Seer is no longer following orders. He's hunting relics. Moonbloods. And if I'm right, he's not the only one."

Elara stepped back, breath short. "What do you mean?"

Thorne leaned in. "There are more like you. Hidden. Sleeping. If he awakens them under his control-your death won't matter. The world will kneel to a wolf god no one can stop."

A chill ran through her veins.

"And you want what?" she asked slowly.

"To stop him. I know the old routes. The sealed temples. The names erased from our history."

Elara crossed her arms. "And what do I call you now?"

He grinned. "Call me insurance."

Behind them, a shadow shifted.

A blade flew from the dark-Thorne grabbed her and ducked. The dagger embedded itself in the stone above them.

They were no longer alone.

Elara bared her teeth.

The hunt was far from over.