1. The Fallen

“I will never fall.”

She mumbled the words over and over, dragging herself forward, her long mantle brushing the ground behind her. It would not end like this, not as long as she could breathe.

Behind her, flames devoured the castle; ash landed on her skin and clung to her sweat-soaked face.

Her clan’s bodies lay scattered on the ground. Beasts slaughtered the survivors mercilessly, filling the air with blood.

The most powerful witch—that was what her clan had always called her. She had believed it too.

What went wrong?

The tall figure before her remained still, watching her with a glinting red gaze.

All she needed to do was kill that monster.

The queen of witches dragged herself back into stance and raised her staff toward him, her body resisting every movement.

Summoning the last bit of her magic, blackened smoke spiraled above her staff toward the shining crystal, slowly turning its glow into a deep red.

He stood there, watching as if the woman was already finished.

Then, in an instant, he crossed the distance, too fast for her sight to catch.

The force of his movement slammed into her violently, sending her back a couple of steps. When she steadied herself, sharp claws pierced her stomach.

A gasp escaped her. Her gaze dropped to the four deep marks he left behind, which for a moment felt numb. Then warmth spread through her as red fluid welled up nonstop.

She forced herself to swing her staff desperately, but it fell from her hands and clattered to the ground.

The queen spat a mouthful of blood. Her vision flickered, and she dropped to the ground. Staring at that void sky, unbearable pain slowly rushed through her.

In the end, she had failed.

Her eyes closed, and the world went silent.

---

A growl, so close it felt inside her skull, shattered the silence.

“You’re not her.”

She inhaled sharply and flew her eyes open. Her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths while sweat drenched her face.

The wooden roof above her came into focus.

Memories rushed back to her, dying... with no hope of survival. Yet here she was, still breathing.

She moved her trembling hands to her stomach, expecting torn wet flesh.

No wound. Not even pain. How was that possible? She had not forgotten that humiliating, agonizing pain.

At the last moment, she had drained herself, too weak to summon any magic, even for healing.

She jolted upright and scanned the room.

No beasts. No clan. No castle. Only a small, cramped room filled with the stench of dust, spiderwebs, and silence.

“What did you do to Nalath?” the guttural voice asked.

Immediately, she jumped to her feet and turned around. The voice was close, almost as if it whispered directly into her ears.

An invisibility spell? No. She could not sense any magic. This was something she did not understand yet.

“Show yourself,” she said, shifting into a fighting stance.

The witch waited, but the room remained silent.

She spoke the words to open her third eye.

Nothing happened.

She stayed still for several seconds. Then she chanted another spell and raised her hand to summon her staff.

Still nothing. Even the silence deepened.

Without resting or thinking much, she tried every spell, opening doors, lighting fire, and moving objects.

As a person who preferred silent spells, but now, she began speaking them aloud, her whispers filling the room.

Lastly, her body fell to her knees.

If she did not know better, she might have thought it was temporary, that soon her powers would return. But was as if where there was supposed to be a core, there was only an empty hollow.

Without a core, she was nothing. Maybe less than nothing. She had seen witches like that; they even chose death.

“You’re not her.”

The voice again.

Her gaze darted across the room. There was no doubt. That voice knew what had happened to her, and it was not responsible.

“If you are that capable,” she said, her voice sharp, “come and face me!”

Then came a roar, followed by words.

“I do not fear you. You are not Nalath!”

Her brows creased. That being was playing with her.

But when the words “you are not Nalath” echoed in her mind, her gaze narrowed.

Since waking up, she had felt strange in an unexplainable way. Each time, she ignored it, focusing on why her powers were gone.

The queen studied the unfamiliar figure.

A pale linen blue flowing dress to her toes, with long sleeves. Her mantle was nowhere to be seen. Her hands were slim and delicate, and her nails were pristine, not blackened or damaged by dark magic.

She touched a strand of hair and stared at it. Long, curly nut-brown hair.

Her forehead wrinkled. It was supposed to be silver hair.

She rose to her feet and walked to the dressing table.

Through the mirror, a petite girl stared back with a deep frown, long curly hair, wide hazel eyes, and golden-brown skin.

She went still.

All her memories, how she had built everything and to be destroyed, every person she had lost, were still there.

But that in the mirror was not her.

How had she missed it? Someone who had pushed her body past its limits should not feel this stiffness in her muscles.

The thing that made her chest tighten...

She had lost her powers because of it.

Her teeth gritted and she slammed her palm against the mirror, a sharp crack echoing through the room.

Pain stung across her palm, but it felt like nothing compared to the anger inside her.

Crimson streamed from the queen's hand, yet through the red cracks, that face still stared back.

If this was someone else’s body... whose body was it?

And where was this place?

Her eyes darted to the window where moonlight slipped through. She pushed herself and stumbled toward it. Standing there, she glanced outside.

Stone paths stretched beneath unfamiliar buildings. Houses stood close together, their wooden frames, flowers hung from windows.

People roamed around.

Deep lines formed on her forehead. She could not sense any magic. It could not be human territory, right?

However, in less than a minute, a massive shape prowled the street.

A beast, dog-like and covered in dark fur, moved through the street in all four. Its predatory eyes scanned the surroundings as if it were a natural thing to do.

But no one screamed. No one ran. It passed as though it belonged there.

Her body stepped back before her thoughts fully formed.

Her fist clenched harder, splitting the wound further.

A pack.

The fact settled in her coldly. She was standing in a werewolf den.