Chapter 2: Echoes of Starblood

Vera pressed her back into the cold stone wall of the chapel’s ruined nave, each breath ripping at her lungs. Dawn’s pale light slanted across broken pews. Outside, shackled feet scraped on flagstones. The net of suppressor chains that bound her rattled whenever she dared to shift. She’d fled deeper into the chapel, cursing herself for dragging Gavriel into this—but the boy’s silent faith gave her strength.

A heavy boot crunched on rubble. A Gamma captain’s armored form filled the doorway. He beckoned two guards forward. “Bring her here,” he ordered, voice like gravel. “The Inquisitor wants proof of her abilities. We’re to drag her before the Judgment Tower within the hour.”

Vera’s pulse hammered. “You’ll kill him,” she croaked, nodding toward Gavriel huddled behind a collapsed pulpit.

The captain’s helm tilted. “That’s collateral. Move.”

One guard stepped forward, yanking the suppressor chain. Pain flared in Vera’s wrists. She sucked in air, forced herself to meet the captain’s gaze. “You don’t understand. If I use my power again—”

The captain grunted. “Convince me or I’ll have the hounds tear you apart.”

Vera’s fingers curled around the chain links. Memories flickered: the soldier in the alley, his mind rent by her unbidden command; her untested gift leaving her trembling. Now they threatened Gavriel’s life, and she could not—would not—let that happen.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Watch.”

She shrank her focus, choking back the wolf’s hunger in her veins. The suppressor cuffs burned with wolfsbane’s sedative heat, dulling her senses. Yet beneath the pain, a spark remained. Vera summoned it—fragile, like ember caught in spilled oil—and reached through her haze. She projected an image into the captain’s mind: a vision of himself kneeling before faceless inquisitors, his own suppressed rage twisting into a black swirl that devoured them one by one.

The captain froze, hand on his sword hilt. His eyes went wide behind the visor slit. “What—?”

Vera’s voice was steady. “You feel it, don’t you? That pulse beneath your ribs, that yearning to break free. Imagine if it ripped through your mind, unbound.”

The captain stiffened, pressing a gauntleted fist to his temple. Guards glanced at each other. The captain inhaled, staggered backward. “Inquisitor’s orders…” he muttered, voice shaking.

Vera risked a glance at Gavriel, who crouched, knuckles white. The boy’s black eyes brimmed with hope.

“Enough,” the captain snapped, forcing himself upright. “Take her. And ensure the boy stays alive—for interrogation.”

The guards jerked the net tighter, jaws clenched. Vera let them drag her across broken stones and collapsed pews, past the brazier’s remnants, out onto the dew-slick courtyard. Gavriel stumbled behind, bound by soft cord.

Outside the chapel, six chained ox-carts stood ready. Iron bars caged each. In the first, prisoners lay groaning. In the last, an iron box sat empty—intended for Vera. She felt a surge of dread.

“You’ll ride in the iron box,” the captain informed her. “No dreams will pierce its walls.”

Vera’s heart pounded. “That box has no ventilation,” she said. “I’ll suffocate.”

A cold laugh. “Then you’re welcome to try.”

They shackled her ankles and wrists, then forced her into the box. Inside, stone-cold air settled. The lid slammed; bolts clanked. Through narrow slits at eye level she glimpsed Gavriel’s frightened silhouette, then the chapel’s towers receded.

The cart jolted forward. Vera pressed her cheek to stone, feeling the world shudder beneath. Her heartbeat thrummed like war drums. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breath. Memories—snatches of silver plain, black wolf, her dagger’s cold weight—swirled behind her eyelids.

All at once, the box vibrated. Vera gasped, caught between panic and curiosity. The metal walls seemed to hum with psychic resonance. She realized suppressor chains might dull her gift, but the iron box—designed to keep her power sealed—had instead amplified her bond with the dream plain.

Her throat tightened. The violet sky of the plain bled into her mind. A single phrase echoed: *Starblood awakens.*

Heart pounding, Vera forced herself to focus. She carved a mental anchor—a tiny knot of conscious will—amid the humming vibrations. Within the darkness, she perceived a distant silhouette: the black wolf, standing atop shattered moonstone pillars, eyes fixed on her.

A voice, softer than wind: “You can’t hide your blood, Vera Moonlock. Not from them. Not from me.”

Her chest tightened. Desperate, she anchored deeper: *Not from me,* she whispered in the void.

At that moment, the box’s lid rattled. Light flared through cracks. Guards shouted. Water splashed. The ox-cart staggered to a halt. Vera’s chain rattled as two soldiers forced the lid open. She squinted against daylight. They yanked her out and dragged her across a muddy road toward the distant silhouette of the Judgment Tower—spire of black iron rising like a beast’s fang against dawn’s sky.

The road’s air smelled of brimstone and rain. Thunderclouds churned overhead. Each step toward the tower felt like walking into a furnace of expectation. Guards hurled her into a damp intake cell at the base of the spire. The heavy door slammed; the thud echoed like a death knell.

She lay on the cold floor, chains clinking. Through the iron grate she saw the courtyard’s morning bustle: Inquisitor acolytes in robes of obsidian glossed by rain, crews tending to siege engines, and oxen stamping in mud. A distant horn bellowed—summoning all to bear witness to the Starfall purge.

Vera struggled upright. Her wrists burned where the wolfsbane cuffs bit into flesh. She touched the crescent scar on her throat, now throbbing red with vulnerability. The dream plain beckoned, but the suppressor chain and iron walls fought her. Still, the wolf’s echo pulsed in her veins.

She drew a ragged breath and forced her lips to part. A rasp of air. Then a whisper—dry as autumn leaves: “Starblood.”

The word spilled into the cell. A guard outside froze. A crackle of psychic energy—too faint for most, but a tremor of forbidden power. The guard’s shoulders shuddered, as though struck by a silent gale, and he stumbled back from the bars.

Inside the cell, Vera leaned against the wall, chest heaving. She had announced herself to the tower—and to everyone beyond. The echo of her power would ripple outward; the Inquisitor’s edict already signed. They had ordered her execution. Now she stood at the threshold of a prison built for the empire’s deadliest Alphas.

A single tear traced her cheek. Her dream ability had named her—Starblood heiress—but she had no map, no allies, and no plan. Only the wolf’s promise: cages forged for Alphas crumble before the Blood Moon.

Vera closed her eyes, steeling herself. “Then let the echo grow,” she vowed, voice barely audible. “Let them come.”

Footsteps approached. The cell’s iron door grated open. A gaunt clerk in ink-stained robes hovered, quill poised. He glanced at her suppressor chains, scrawled “SM-1” on a leather tag, then secured it to her wrist. He studied her face, eyes flicking between her scar and her trembling lips.

“Subject SM-1,” he intoned, voice flat. “Processed.”

He locked the cage from outside. The clang of metal echoed. Vera remained still, a heartbeat away from collapse—and a heartbeat away from awakening something far more monstrous. The Judgment Tower would test her, but the eclipse approached. Soon, she would need allies within these walls—if she hoped to survive the coming purge.

And in the dream plain, the black wolf waited, its crimson eyes reflecting her fear and her destiny. The echo of Starblood had begun.