Chapter 1: Ashes and Orphans

Vera Moonlock crouched beside the cold stone hearth, her fingers sifting through a handful of candle embers. The Riverside chapel lay in ruins—a dozen shuttered pews, a collapsed roof beam, and a single brazier someone had left burning. She fed the embers one brittle scrap of wood at a time until a flicker of flame caught, then coaxed it to life. Above her, the night wind rattled broken window frames; below, rats scurried through charred floorboards.

“Anything to eat?” she murmured, voice raspy as smoke.

“No,” a boy’s whisper answered. He huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around a ragged cloak. Eyes—one swollen shut—tracked Vera’s every move. The child was mute, but his hunger spoke plainly. Day after day she’d stolen scraps for him. Tonight, nothing.

From the alley beyond the collapsed altar came footsteps: heavy, unsteady. A man’s stagger, the rattle of armor. Vera’s heart thumped—soldiers meant trouble. She rose, straightened her patched cloak.

“Get inside,” she hissed to the boy. His dark eyes flicked toward her, but he obeyed.

Vera slipped outside, chest tight. A Gamma soldier—armored breastplate dented, gloves stained—loomed over a smaller, hooded figure. The child’s hood fell back, revealing a pale face and wide, terrified eyes. Vera recognized him: Gavriel, who’d slept in the abandoned granary. The soldier’s gauntlet closed around the boy’s shoulder. A cruel grin under his helm.

“Quiet, brat,” he slurred. “Imperial business.”

“Let him go,” Vera called, stepping into the moonlight.

The soldier’s head snapped up. He staggered forward. “Who—”

“Your business isn’t with children,” she said, voice low but steady. “You’ll get what you came for elsewhere.”

He snorted, then shoved Gavriel against the chapel’s carved stone façade. Gavriel gasped, stumbled, knees scraping brick. The Gamma laughed. “Save your breath, girl. This one’s reserved for the Inquisition.”

Vera’s stomach twisted. “No one’s reserved for anything,” she spat, sliding one hand toward her belt. There, hidden beneath fabric, was her mother’s silver dagger—too heavy to hide long, but enough for surprise.

“Step away,” the soldier growled, raising a hand. Gavriel whimpered, clutching the fringe of his hood.

Vera’s pulse hammered. She weighed her chances: sola—alone—against him. Her hand hovered over the dagger’s hilt. Her other hand itched with power she barely understood—a dream-born ability, untested.

“Go on,” the Gamma soldier sneered. “Touch me, and he bleeds.”

Then something snapped inside Vera: the ragged line between waking and dreaming blurred. In her mind, she slipped into a silver-lit plane—an endless twilight sky dusted with starlight. A black wolf knelt before her, its eyes gleaming like onyx. She felt the wolf’s breath, warm and urgent.

Back in the alley, the soldier’s helm rattled. He stumbled backward, as though the air itself had struck him.

“What—?” he sputtered, staggered.

Vera’s voice echoed in her mind rather than her throat. “Release him.”

The wolf’s coat rippled, and back on the street, the soldier pitched forward, face ashen, eyes rolling. He clutched his head—then collapsed onto one knee. Gavriel scrambled free, eyes wide.

Vera blinked, suddenly herself again. She hadn’t meant to use the dagger. Her heart pounded—her power was real, and it terrified her.

Footsteps thundered from the alley entrance. Torches glowed against stone walls. More Gamma soldiers, drawn by the commotion, spilled into the chapel courtyard.

“Seize her!” one barked. “The witch does it again!”

Vera grabbed Gavriel’s arm. “Run!” she hissed. He hesitated, then darted past the fallen soldier, toward a smashed side door. Vera took a single step after him—and halted. Her gaze flicked down to her throat, where a crescent-shaped scar lay just above her collarbone. Cold and tender, it prickled like an accusation.

“Where’s your voice, little witch?” a guard sneered, sword tip sweeping near her cheek.

Vera pressed her back against the chapel wall, reaching behind to snag her dagger. Gavriel slipped inside; the side door slammed. Darkness swallowed him.

She squared her shoulders. “I don’t have one,” she whispered—harder than she felt.

She lunged, drawing the dagger in a flash of steel. Guards startled, stepping back. The one with the sword lunged; she sidestepped, disarming him with a deft twist. Metal clanged.

But more guards advanced. Torchlight glinted on breastplates. Vera backed away, pressed to broken pews. No narrow escape this time.

A shout from the chapel steps—another soldier hurled a net of suppressor chains. It flew, snapping tight around her legs. Vera yanked at it; the chains hissed, biting into her skin.

“Dream witch,” they jeered. “You’re ours.”

She struggled, tugged, but the metal resisted. A guard kicked her shoulder; she toppled onto her back. Dazed, she closed her eyes, drawing breath. They hurt.

Inside her mind, the wolf waited.

Outside, under the watchful gaze of a hundred orphaned shadows, Vera inhaled. Her fingers curved, brushed the coarse stone near the brazier. Ash rose in a tiny swirl around her palm.

The wolf within stirred. Vera clenched her teeth against the pain behind her eyes.

“Don’t fight,” she breathed. “Just let it flow.”

She touched the ashes. A flash—and guards jerked back as though struck by gusts of wind. One guard’s helm cracked; another fell unconscious, clutching his helmet. The crow of chaos rose.

Guards screamed orders. Chains rattled. Vera, half-blinded by pain, forced herself to stand. The wolf’s breath filled her lungs. She turned and sprinted through the broken door, hearing shouts behind her. Stone corridors, a flash of torch, another collapsed guard. She vanished into the night.

---

Sheltered at last in the chapel’s inner sanctum, Vera collapsed against a shattered altar. Gavriel knelt beside her, hands trembling as he tried to bandage her scraped knees with a scrap of cloth.

“Are you hurt?” he managed.

Vera closed her eyes. “Nothing a night’s sleep can’t mend,” she rasped.

He frowned, glancing at her throat. “Your scar—”

“Not healing,” she cut in softly. “It never heals.”

Outside, the night sky flared. Vera forced herself to look up through the gaping roof. Violet comets streaked overhead, trailing glittering tails. Light spilled into the chapel like blood across stone.

A distant horn sounded—imperial, majestic. Vera’s chest tightened. She’d heard rumors: the High Inquisitor was signing something tonight. Something dark.

She reached for Gavriel’s hand. “Help me rest,” she whispered. “I need to dream.”

He nodded, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. Vera leaned back against cold marble, eyes heavy. Above her, the chapel walls groaned as if sighing.

In sleep, Vera drifted back to the silver plain. The black wolf stood, tall and proud, beneath a sky swirling with violet comets.

“You have a name,” it rumbled.

She remembered the tremor in the alley, the soldier’s fear. “Vera Moonlock.”

It inclined its head. “Then be ready, Vera Moonlock. The edict is sealed. Blood and ash will rise.”

Vera reached to touch its flank, but the plain dissolved as violet comets flashed overhead—Earth’s dream bleeding into hers.

She woke to dawn’s gray light filtering through broken glass. Outside, campfires flickered at the chapel entrance. Guards gathered, steel at their sides. The doors would break soon.

Vera Moonlock stood, hand on her dagger. Ashes and orphans—where would she run? The edict was signed, the purge unleashed. And somewhere, beyond door and dream, the High Inquisitor’s pen dripped ink the color of comet tails. The real hunt had begun.