Chapter 4: The Mark Beneath the Moon

The courtyard was a storm of snarls and steel. Torches guttered in the wind, shadows clawing across the stone as wolves and men clashed in the broken gate. Kaelen’s silver-marked wolf tore through the fray, a blur of teeth and fury, driving Eryndor’s intruders back into the night.

Serenya pressed against the wall, breath ragged. Every sound was too sharp—the crack of bone, the scream of metal on metal, the wet snap of flesh yielding beneath claws. She tried to move, but her legs wavered beneath her. Her vision blurred. Heat flared under her skin, not from fear but something deeper, something alien.

Her chest heaved. The world tilted.

“Kaelen—” she gasped, though he was already lost to the fight.

The ground rose to meet her as darkness claimed the edges of her sight. A rush of voices echoed, muffled, before strong arms caught her.

Kaelen shifted back, blood streaking his jaw, his breath harsh. He lifted her with ease, ignoring the chaos still raging at the gates. Mireya shouted after him, blade flashing in torchlight, “Go! I’ll hold the line.”

He carried Serenya across the courtyard, through the arched doors of the stronghold. Her head lolled against his chest, hair spilling like chestnut silk over his arm. Each shallow breath tightened something inside him.

“Stay with me,” he muttered under his breath, as if her name might tether her here.

The hall stretched dark and still, moonlight slipping through narrow windows. He laid her on a long bench, brushing damp strands of hair from her pale face. His hand stilled when the light struck her skin.

For a moment he thought it was dust or sweat, a trick of the moon’s glow. But then it pulsed—faint, golden, curling across her shoulder blade like fire beneath glass.

The mark shifted, alive.

Kaelen’s breath caught in his throat. His scarred hand hovered just above it, afraid to touch, afraid it might burn.

Outside, the battle raged on. Inside, under the hush of stone walls, Serenya’s secret began to reveal itself.

The faint glow spread across Serenya’s shoulder blade, curling downward like runes carved in flame. It pulsed once, then again, steady as a heartbeat.

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. He drew in a breath and called out, his voice low but commanding. “Healer. Now.”

Within moments, the door opened. Brother Aluin entered, robes brushing the floor, followed by two warriors who carried the weight of battle still in their eyes. Their gazes fell to Serenya, and one muttered under his breath.

“What is that?”

Aluin moved closer, but his steps faltered when the light caught his face. His hazel eyes widened. He reached out with trembling fingers, then stopped short, as if touching the mark might condemn him.

“Speak,” Kaelen pressed.

The old monk swallowed. “I’ve seen such signs only in the oldest texts. The mark of the oath-born. A bloodline tied to prophecy.”

A ripple of unease spread through the warriors. One stepped back sharply, making the sign warding off curses. Another hissed, “It’s the cursed line. She should never have crossed our gates.”

The words struck the air like sparks.

Mireya entered then, her golden eyes flicking from Kaelen to the glowing sigil. “Saints preserve us,” she murmured, though her voice carried no reverence. Only suspicion. “You brought us a storm in human skin.”

“She’s no storm,” Kaelen growled.

“Look at them!” Mireya shot back, gesturing at the restless guards. “You know the stories as well as I do. This isn’t chance. This is warning.”

The glow flared brighter, as though answering the accusation. Serenya stirred, lips parting, lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. She heard their voices before her eyes opened—curse, prophecy, danger.

Her gaze found Kaelen’s through the haze, gray irises wide and terrified. Her whisper trembled in the silence.

“What am I?”

The chamber fell utterly still, every answer unsaid yet hanging heavy in the air.

The chamber buzzed with half-whispers and restless feet, the glow of Serenya’s mark throwing faint light against the stone. The air itself felt charged, alive with fear.

Kaelen’s voice cut through it. “Enough.”

The word was quiet, yet it carried, silencing the chamber more surely than a shout. He stood tall, broad shoulders squared, his scar catching the torchlight like a brand of authority.

“She is under my protection,” he said, every syllable like iron. “Prophecy or curse, it makes no difference. No hand will move against her while I draw breath.”

Mireya’s eyes burned gold in the dimness. “Your heart speaks louder than your judgment. The pack will see it. They’ll say you’re blinded.”

“Let them,” Kaelen snapped. His gaze swept the gathered wolves, daring any to defy him. “When we turn away the helpless, we cease to be more than beasts.”

A warrior shifted uneasily. Another muttered, “And if she brings ruin on us all?”

Serenya’s fingers curled into the blanket around her. Her gray eyes flicked between the faces—fear, suspicion, resentment. Each expression pressed heavier on her chest.

Kaelen turned, softer now, addressing her rather than the room. “You belong here. Whatever past you carry, it is not stronger than my word.”

The tension in her throat tightened, guilt spilling through her voice. “I endanger you.”

“You endanger nothing,” he said. His hand hovered near hers but did not touch. “It is not your fault the world wants to twist you into a weapon.”

The council remained silent, but the air was thick with unease. The pack was not convinced, only cowed by his command. Kaelen knew it. Serenya knew it too.

When the chamber finally emptied, she rose unsteadily, whispering, “They’ll turn on you because of me.”

“They’ll obey,” he replied, though his jaw was rigid.

She drifted toward the archway, her steps unsteady, pulled by something beyond reason. The night air met her like a blade, sharp and cold.

Then she froze. A scent, foreign and thick, coiled through the mist beyond the walls. Not smoke, not blood—wolf.

Eryndor’s wolves had crossed the border.

The mist curled thick over the stronghold walls, silver under the moon. Serenya stood frozen at the archway, chest rising in quick, shallow breaths. The scent coiled in her nose—wild, musky, alien. It wasn’t Kaelen’s wolves.

“Serenya.”

She turned. Kaelen’s figure filled the doorway, his presence dark against the torchlit hall. He crossed the threshold, the night air catching his raven hair and the scar along his jaw. His nostrils flared once. His eyes narrowed.

“They’re here,” he murmured.

“Who?” Her voice was barely sound.

He didn’t answer with words. His shoulders tensed, and for a heartbeat his wolf pressed against the surface, storm-blue eyes flashing gold. When he spoke again, it was lower, edged with the growl he couldn’t quite hide.

“Eryndor’s pack. They’re testing our borders.”

Her stomach twisted. “They want me.”

“They’ll never touch you.” The vow came sharp, immediate, as if he could bite it into truth. He stepped closer, towering, steadying. His hand hovered at her elbow but stopped just short of contact. “Come inside. The walls are safer.”

“Safe?” Her laugh cracked, brittle. “The mark glows on my skin. The pack whispers curses. And now the enemy stands outside your gate.” She lifted her chin though her hands shook. “Tell me again I am safe.”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “You are safe because I say so.”

For a moment, the air stretched taut between them. Her storm-gray eyes held his, searching, doubting, wanting to believe. Then the sound of hooves broke it—riders approaching fast along the northern road.

The gates clanged open just enough to admit a lone figure. A messenger, cloaked in black, rode into the courtyard, dismounted, and flung a sealed scroll at Kaelen’s feet.

His voice carried cold across the night. “Lord Eryndor sends his demand: Surrender the girl, or the valley burns.”

The horse reared, hooves striking sparks, before the rider wheeled away into the mist.

Kaelen bent, lifted the scroll, and crushed it in his fist without breaking the seal. His gaze cut to Serenya, hard and unyielding.

The Harvest Moon’s shadow pressed closer.