Frostfang Castle had always been the unbreakable symbol of wolfkind's dominion, its stone walls defying centuries of storms and sieges. Tonight, however, the fortress seemed to breathe differently, as though its very bones felt the tremors of destiny closing in. From the parapets, braziers bled light into the encroaching dusk, and the winter wind keened through arrow slits like a chorus of long-dead warriors singing lament.
Aldric stalked through the castle's endless corridors, cloaked in black with silver filigree across his shoulders. Luceris — the wolf spirit bound to his soul — prowled restlessly inside him.
They watch you with hungry eyes, Lone Wolf, Luceris whispered, as if tasting the air.
Then let them watch, Aldric answered in silence, though an uncomfortable chill prickled down his spine.
The hall was thick with people: envoys, spies, and nobles who claimed to be loyal yet smelled of fear and greed. In every face, Aldric could read a hunger for power or an echo of prophecy. Even among his closest councilors, tension simmered like a pot threatening to boil over.
He stepped into the great hall, where banners depicting the white wolf on a crimson field stirred in the draft. At the far end stood a group of emissaries from the southern marshes. Their leader, Lord Verrian, had an oiled beard and a grin sharpened by politics. He bowed dramatically, every movement choreographed for advantage.
"Your Majesty," Verrian purred. "We come bearing the loyalty of the Southern Marches."
Behind him, servants carried gifts stacked like a merchant's festival display — fine silks, spiced oils, chests of coin, even a pair of trained hunting hawks bound with braided cords.
Aldric swept them with a cold glance. "Your loyalty cannot be bought with birds and silks," he said, voice like a blade. "If you wish to prove it, show me deeds."
A flicker of frustration passed over Verrian's carefully painted smile. "Of course, my king."
Rowena emerged from behind a pillar, her dark hair braided with iron rings, eyes flashing like a warrior queen's. She stepped close enough to Aldric that he felt steadied by her presence.
"They think you a starving wolf," she murmured, "hungry for their scraps."
He scoffed softly. "Then let them see I have my own teeth."
After dismissing the delegation, Aldric called an emergency council in the war room — a vast chamber shaped like a wolf's den, with a vaulted ceiling ringed by ancestral swords. Torches lined the stone walls, their flames guttering in the draft, throwing restless shadows.
Captain Rehn was already there, bowing stiffly as Aldric strode in.
"My king," Rehn began, voice strained, "news from the Crescent Moon Temple."
Aldric gestured for him to continue.
"The High Oracle, Lyssara, has vanished. Along with three handmaidens. They fled in the night."
Rowena cursed under her breath. "If she reaches the enemy, she'll turn every kingdom east of the Vale against us."
Aldric slammed a gauntleted fist onto the oak table. The maps jumped, their markers rattling. "Send riders," he commanded, voice thrumming with alpha dominance. "Every pass, every village — find her before her visions destroy everything my family bled to build."
Rehn nodded, sweat at his brow, and fled to deliver the orders.
Aldric leaned against the table, breathing hard, while Rowena studied him with a concern that felt like a blade to the heart.
"Do you ever rest?" she asked quietly.
He gave a humorless smile. "Wolves do not rest when the hunt begins."
Her eyes softened for a heartbeat. "Then at least let me share your burden."
Night had fallen hard when Aldric finally sought the ramparts, drawn by the scent of coming snow. Lanterns guttered along the walls, casting pools of gold into the growing dark.
The wind screamed through the battlements, so cold it made his bones ache. He looked down into the courtyard, where his soldiers drilled under torchlight, every motion crisp and deadly. Even that small discipline felt fragile tonight, as if a single wrong word could shatter the kingdom.
The chain unseen will bind your heart, Luceris whispered again, gnawing at the back of his mind.
Aldric exhaled sharply. You cannot bind a wolf.
You would be surprised, the spirit said grimly.
A sudden commotion at the gates jolted him from brooding. Torches flared as a lone horseman rode in, the animal lathered and steaming in the cold. The guards parted, hauling open the iron portcullis with a shriek of chains.
Aldric strode down the stairs two at a time, Rowena already moving beside him.
The rider dismounted, collapsing to one knee. "My king," he panted, "the Oracle — she's headed for the Hollow Vale!"
Aldric's jaw locked. That cursed place. The Vale was said to swallow men whole with its twisted woods and witch-blooded shadows.
"Mount the warband," Aldric commanded. "We leave at first light."
Rowena nodded crisply, the warrior in her answering the call with no hesitation.
Before dawn, the armory roared with the noise of warriors preparing. Aldric pulled on black steel, inlaid with curling runes that glimmered faintly under torchlight. The armor smelled of cold metal and old magic, as though the souls of past kings still clung to it.
Rowena helped him clasp the shoulder guards, fingers steady even as her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.
"Promise you'll return," she whispered.
Aldric gripped her hand with surprising tenderness. "I will — so long as you stand at my side."
She nodded, fierce and unbowed, a promise burning between them.
They rode out at dawn, the horses' hooves muffled by new-fallen snow. A wolf-shaped standard flew behind them, red fabric catching the rising sun.
For three days they rode through frozen valleys, past half-abandoned villages where people eyed them with a mixture of awe and terror. Rumors of the prophecy had traveled faster than any messenger, poisoning hearts before Aldric could even speak.
Finally, at dusk on the third day, they reached the Hollow Vale. The air changed there — cold beyond the natural cold, heavy with the taste of old, strange magics. Trees bent in unnatural shapes, their bark scarred with ancient claw marks, as though something had tried to carve its way free.
Aldric led his riders through a ring of stone pillars half-buried in snow, where the Oracle had been sighted. Within the circle, a small fire burned, stubborn against the gathering dark.
And there she was. Lyssara — the High Oracle.
Her chains clinked softly as she raised her eyes to Aldric, eyes so deep and dark they seemed bottomless.
"You should not have followed me," she intoned, voice echoing like a bell across a grave.
"You belong to my realm," Aldric growled.
She laughed, a sharp and broken sound. "Your realm, Lone Wolf? The gods laugh at your claims."
He stepped closer, boots crushing the brittle snow. "Then let them laugh from their graves."
Lyssara's smile turned sad, almost pitying. "Then you will drown in their laughter."
Rowena moved forward, blade drawn. "Give us the traitor's name, Oracle," she demanded.
Lyssara's head tilted slightly, as if listening to a secret no one else could hear. "I see only betrayal," she murmured. "The knife is already hidden, closer than your own shadow."
Aldric's rage boiled over, cold and merciless. "Then I will tear every shadow apart," he snarled.
They bound the Oracle's wrists and made camp within the stone ring, the snow piling up against the ancient markers until they looked like wolves with mouths gaping to devour the world.
That night, Aldric slept fitfully, dreams wrapping around him like chains. In those visions, the castle fell in flames, Rowena torn from his arms by faceless enemies, a child crying for him in a place he could not reach.
He woke with a gasp, heart hammering, the wolf spirit growling in his skull.
Dreams are bones, Luceris told him cryptically. They can feed or choke you.
At dawn, the Oracle stood in the middle of the stones, arms raised as though in prayer.
"Do you wish to hear how it ends?" she called, voice ringing through the frost-heavy air.
Aldric stepped forward, face carved from iron. "Speak."
Her words fell like knives:
"The one you love will break you,
the one you trust will bleed you.
At the end of all things, the moon will choose
whether you die a wolf or a man."
A silence so deep it felt eternal spread over the clearing.
Rowena trembled, blade white-knuckled in her grip.
Aldric forced himself to draw breath. "I do not fear the moon," he growled.
The Oracle's smile was like ice cracking. "Then you are a fool, Wolf King."
They broke camp and rode for Frostfang, the Vale's dark energy clinging to them. Aldric felt it worming through his mind like rot, whispering all the ways the Oracle might be right.
Even as the walls of his fortress came into view, he knew the true danger was not the traitors beyond, but the betrayals yet to be born within his own heart.
And if prophecy was to be believed, then before this war ended, he would lose more than a kingdom — he would lose himself.
The thought burned through him as the castle gates closed behind them, sealing him in with a future as uncertain as the shifting snows.