Chapter 114

Chapter 114: Chapter 114

The underground chamber was silent save for the soft hum of the barrier and the steady pulse of gold and silver light that emanated from the stone table. Queen Seraphina stood at the edge of the energy field, her tears falling freely now, her hand pressed against the invisible wall that separated her from her son.

The light pulsed.

It was faint—barely perceptible—but it was there. A response. An acknowledgment. As if Soren had heard her voice and was answering in the only way he could.

"I’m here, my darling," she whispered. "I’m still here. And I’m not giving up on you. No matter how long it takes. No matter what I have to do. You will wake up. Do you hear me? You will wake up."

The light pulsed again. Fainter this time. As if even that small response was draining what little strength he had.

The four beasts that guarded the table watched her with their glowing ember eyes. They were ancient creatures, bound to the Thornridge bloodline centuries ago by the first Lycan king. They would protect Soren until he woke—or until he drew his last breath.

Seraphina stayed until the light stopped pulsing. Then she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand and straightened her cloak. She could not stay long. She never could. The longer she was gone from the royal chambers, the greater the chance that someone would notice.

Only three people in the entire realm knew about this chamber: herself, her husband, and Freya. The secret healer they had brought in—a wizened old woman named Elara who had served the Thornridge family for decades was the only other soul permitted to enter, and even she could only do so when accompanied by one of the three blood members. The enchantment on the door required a drop of Thornridge blood to open. Without it, no one could enter. No one could disturb Soren’s rest.

She pressed her fingers to her lips and then pressed them against the barrier.

"Sleep well, my son," she whispered. "I’ll be back soon."

She turned and walked out of the chamber, the beasts settling back into their silent vigil. The door sealed behind her with a soft hiss of ancient magic.

The corridors of the palace were dark and empty as she made her way back to the royal chambers. She slipped through the hidden passages, her lantern extinguished now, her feet knowing the way by memory alone. When she reached the bedroom, the King was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. He had not noticed her absence. He never did.

She slid beneath the covers and lay still, staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come. It never did anymore. But she had learned to rest anyway—to close her eyes and let her body recover, even if her mind could not.

He’s still alive, she told herself. That’s what matters. He’s still alive, and I will find a way to wake him.

The first light of dawn was filtering through the trees when Nyra began her training.

She had been at it for an hour already—the same drills Soren had taught her, the same combinations, the same footwork. Her body moved through the patterns with a precision that would have made him proud. The lean muscle she had developed over the past month rippled beneath her skin as she pivoted and struck, her fists cutting through the cold morning air.

But it wasn’t enough.

She pushed harder. Faster. Her lungs burned. Her muscles screamed. She ignored them. She had been ignoring pain for so long now that it had become a familiar companion—like the grief, like the guilt, like the memories that haunted her every waking moment.

Again, she told herself. Do it again.

She dropped into a fighting stance and moved through the combination. Strike. Block. Counter. Pivot. Strike. Her foot caught on a loose floorboard, and she stumbled.

And then it happened.

A flicker of silver light sparked from her fingertips.

It was small—barely more than a spark—but it was there. She stared at her hands, her heart pounding. She had not seen that light since the night of the showcase. Since the night she had screamed and killed a dozen men without meaning to.

It’s still there, she thought. The power. It’s still inside me.

She tried to summon it again. She focused all her will, all her desperation, all her grief, and reached for the silver light that had once blazed so brightly within her.

Nothing.

The spark had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Her hands were ordinary again callused from training, scarred from battle, but utterly, frustratingly normal.

"Come back," she whispered. "Please. Come back."

The light did not answer.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. She had been at this for weeks. Training. Waiting. Hoping. And still the power remained dormant. Still she remained trapped in this hut, hiding from the world, unable to do anything but survive.

"You’re pushing yourself too hard."

The voice came from behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

"Go away," she said without looking up. "I’m not in the mood for your platitudes today."

Soren’s hallucination or ghost, or whatever he was moved into her field of vision. He looked the same as always: the bloodstained pageantry coat, the dark hair swept back, the gentle eyes that had once looked at her with so much love.

"I’m not here to give you platitudes," he said. "I’m here to tell you the truth. You’ve been hiding for a month, Nyra. Training. Waiting. Grieving. And none of it has brought you any closer to what you want."

"And what do I want?"

"Revenge. Justice. Your throne." He paused. "Me."

She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "You’re dead. How can I have you?"

"I don’t know. But I know you’ll never find out if you stay in this hut forever." He crouched down so that his eyes were level with hers. "You’re not a failure, little moon. You never have been. But you’re not a fugitive either. You’re a queen. The rightful heir to the Astrlyn pack. The Daughter of the Moon. And it’s time you started acting like it."

"I can’t. My power—"

"Your power will return when you stop trying to force it. When you stop treating it like a weapon and start treating it like a part of yourself." He reached out as if to touch her cheek, but his hand passed through her. "You’re ready, Nyra. You’ve been ready for weeks. You just don’t believe it yet."

Nyra stared at him. The tears were falling again she had long since stopped trying to control them. "What if I fail? What if I try to take back my throne and I lose everything? What if I get the people I care about killed again?"

"Then you’ll fail. And you’ll get back up. And you’ll try again." He smiled. "That’s what you do. That’s who you are."

She closed her eyes. When she opened them, he was gone.

A knock at the door—three short raps, a pause, two more.

Corvin.

She wiped her face and crossed to the door, unlatching it. Corvin stepped inside, his bag of supplies slung over his shoulder, his whiskey-dark eyes scanning her face with the sharp perception she had come to rely on.

"You’ve been crying," he said.

"I’m always crying. It’s becoming a problem."

"Have you eaten?"

"I trained instead."

"That’s not an answer." He set the bag on the table and began unpacking it. "I brought fresh bread. And cheese. And more reports."

Nyra took the bread but didn’t eat it. She was staring at the wall, her expression distant. "Corvin. I’ve been thinking."

"A dangerous pastime."

"I’m serious." She turned to face him. "I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t keep hiding while my uncle rules my pack. While the realm falls apart. While Soren’s death goes unavenged. It’s time for me to stop being a fugitive and start being what I was born to be."

Corvin set down the cheese and looked at her. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying I’m ready. To plan my return. To fight for my throne. To find out who killed Soren and make them pay." Her voice was steady. Her eyes were clear. "I’m done hiding, Corvin. It’s time to fight."

Corvin was silent for a long moment. Then he smiled—a rare, genuine smile that transformed his sharp features into something almost warm.

"I was wondering how long it would take you," he said. "I’ve had a plan ready for two weeks."

The main training grounds of Shadowmoon Academy had never seen anything like it.

Students from both academies stood in awkward clusters, their uniforms a stark contrast—Shadowmoon’s dark, practical attire against Silvermoon’s pristine white and silver. The tension was palpable. These were students who had been rivals a month ago. Students who had competed against each other in the showcase. Students who had watched each other’s champions fall.

And now they were expected to train together as allies.

"This is weird," Finn muttered, adjusting the strap of his training armor. "This is really, really weird."

"It’s necessary," Jasper said. He had his ever-present book tucked under his arm, but his sharp eyes were scanning the crowd, cataloguing faces and postures and potential threats. Maureen stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. ℯℯ𝘭.

"Necessary doesn’t make it less weird," Finn countered. "I literally competed against half these people. I beat Mira Voss in combat. She’s standing right over there, and she’s looking at me like she remembers."

"She probably does. You were very loud about it."

"I was celebrating. It’s different."

Marek, standing on Finn’s other side, said nothing. But his steady presence was a comfort, as it always was.

Ragnar stood at the front of the Shadowmoon formation, his scarred face grim. He had been assigned as one of the student leaders for the joint training a role Soren would have filled, if he were still alive. The thought of his best friend was a constant ache in his chest, but he pushed it aside. Soren would have wanted him to lead. Soren would have wanted him to fight.

"Listen up!" Captain Voss’s voice boomed across the training ground. "You have all been briefed on the merger. You know why we’re here. The realm is facing a threat unlike anything we’ve seen in centuries, and it’s going to take all of us—Shadowmoon and Silvermoon together—to face it."

He paced before the assembled students, his scarred face hard.

"Starting today, you will train as a single unit. You will fight as a single unit. You will learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses. You will learn to trust each other. And if any of you have a problem with that—" He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "Keep it to yourselves. We don’t have time for petty rivalries anymore."

The students exchanged glances. Some looked resigned. Some looked determined. Some looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.

"Training squads have been assigned," Captain Voss continued. "You’ll find your names on the boards near the armory. Find your squad. Meet your squadmates. And get to work."

The students dispersed, moving toward the assignment boards. Finn pushed through the crowd, Marek and Jasper close behind.

"Who’s in your squad?" Finn asked, craning his neck to see the board.

"Maureen Holt," Jasper said flatly.

"She’s in my squad too," Finn said, grinning. "What a coincidence."

"It’s not a coincidence. The squads were assigned by the instructors."

"Still a coincidence."

Marek pointed to a name on the board. "Ragnar is our squad leader."

"Good," Finn said. "At least we’ll have someone competent in charge."

"I heard that," Ragnar said, appearing behind them. "And I’m choosing to take it as a compliment."

"It was meant as one."