"They called her a nobody. They tried to break her spirit. But destiny had other plans." Elara Moonstone was raised as an orphan child in a cruel family, until her 18th birthday, when a sudden mark appeared on her chest and everything changed the next day after she went to school. Elara's life shatters when she learns of her royal Lycan lineage. Thrust into a world of magic, politics, and danger, she must embrace her true self to unite warring factions and reclaim her throne. With powerful allies by her side and love complicating her path, Elara's journey is one of self-discovery, resilience, and destiny.
View MoreElara Moonstone, an orphan raised in a cruel family, learned early how to disappear. How can she get quiet when everyone is being cruel to her?
She feels safer in the shadows, behind lockers, crowds, and silence.
In a town that looked at her as peculiar, she carried invisibility as a second skin.
She had no history of how she got there, no childhood pictures, no tearful relatives to claim her when she was left on the doorstep of the Harrow family when she was six with nothing but a little pendant and a name.
And Harrows, they were cruel.
Their Morrow Street house felt cold even when the furnace burned. Mr. Harrow spent his nights working and his days drinking. Mrs. Harrow smoked on the living room sofa, watched soap operas all day long, and feigned Elara's existence if it wasn't to clean something. Three years older than Elara, their son Garrett used her as a rumor he'd treat with scorn whenever he wasn't taunting her bizarre dreams and mumbling "freak" in the high school corridors.
But Elara no longer wept.
She traversed the world silently, hidden behind a veil of numbness. She obtained good grades, but not the type that garnered applause. She read books, but not the type exchanged in class. She drew items, ancient trees, howling wolves with piercing eyes, moons that fractured like glass, without knowing the reason they resided in her mind.
Until the day she turned eighteen.
It started with a dream.
She stood barefoot in a field of black flowers, the sky a velvet curtain of stars. A wolf with silver eyes approached her, silent and reverent. Behind it, a figure cloaked in shadow watched, unmoving. The wolf bowed. The figure vanished. When she looked down, the flowers had turned to ash.
She woke breathless. And then she screamed.
Because glowing on her shoulder, just below the collarbone, was a mark she had never seen before, circular, etched in what looked like light itself. The shape of a crescent moon with a slash through it.
Panic gripped her chest.
She scrubbed at it. Nothing. She tried to cover it. It bled through the fabric like a hidden truth finally revealed.
“Elara!” Mrs. Harrow’s voice banged at the door. “What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” she lied, throwing on a hoodie and hiding the mark as best she could.
The school that day was a blur. Her skin itched beneath her hoodie, the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat. People stared more than usual. Garrett laughed louder. But something was different. She could feel it.
Like her senses had sharpened overnight.
She could smell emotions, anxiety, desire and fear. Hear heartbeats in the silence. And worst of all, she could feel something watching her. Not from school. Not from town. From something older. Something hungry.
After her last class, she bolted, the need to get home replaced by the instinct to hide.
But she could not hide.
She rushed towards the forest to take a deep breath, to think about what was going on!
But she didn't know, as the moment Elara took a step in the forest, to sort things out, a sudden figure with shiny eyes, a fearsome personality, suddenly appeared, like he wanted to kill her. Elara screamed and started running deep into the forest.
Dawn did not rise over Arkael.The sky fractured instead, veins of red lightning rippling through black cloud, as if the heavens themselves had cracked open to witness what might be the world’s final breath.The Ashborn stood at the cliff’s edge, flame-veils sodden with mist and memory. There were no banners flapping in windless air. No horns. No drums. Just silence, the kind that comes before judgment.Across the broken vale, the Dustborn army emerged in tide-swells of shadow, obsidian-bone shields glinting with curse sigils, beasts wrought from the marrow of extinct gods, warlocks whose flesh was sewn with thread made of oath and agony. They didn’t march. They loomed.And at their core, the banner of Sirelia rose.A crown of thorns, spiked in spirals, pulsed with an otherworldly glow, bloodlight that had never known sun. It throbbed like a wound that wouldn’t close.But she was not among them.Not yet.She had gone to face Seren.And Kael,Kael remained behind.Not because he was le
The gates of Arkael did not open.They remembered.They had not moved in a thousand years, not since the night the God Below stirred for the first time and Elara, queen of mercy and fire, turned back from the brink of apotheosis and sealed the realm from what came next.But for Seren,They bent.The blackstone teeth of the Hollowfire Gate shifted, not with ceremony, but recognition. They curved inward like ancient roots recoiling from new flame. No guards stood. No runes flared. No illusions tried to dissuade her.Just a corridor of silence, carved from the marrow of time itself, leading into the heart of something that had once been worshipped,And now merely waited.Behind her, the camp stood still.Kael did not follow.Nor the Ashborn.Not even the stars dared cross that threshold.She had told them plainly, on the eve of dusk, with ash still clinging to her shoulders:“This path is mine alone.”And the land, for once, had listened.Inside, the air did not breathe. It held.Colder
The first time Seren saw Lucien again, it was not in moonlight.It was in ashfall.The sky above the Ashborn’s last encampment was bruised the color of secrets—muted pewter, the hue of old regrets, as if the heavens themselves refused to forgive what was coming. Cinders drifted with no real direction, falling in slow, ceaseless spirals, soft as dust shaken from the hands of a world too weary to lift itself again. Nothing was warm, nothing glowed. Even the embers in the fire rings seemed cowed into silence.The sentries saw nothing on the ridges. No flames from the warding pyres. No howl from the wolves that scouted the perimeter, their silver eyes peeled for trouble. Just silence. A hush thick as honey, heavy as sleep.Lucien simply appeared—pulled from the ragged edge of shadow and memory, as if the ash itself had finally remembered him.He stepped past the last watchfire, his boots stirring a drift of gray flakes. Black from hood to heel, shrouded in regret, and carrying a blade tha
It began with a whisper.Not a scream.Not an alarm.Just the hush of wind that had no place in that place.A flicker of warmth swept through the western ridge, threading between ancient stones where no current should stir. It passed over cold soil, across the ash-crusted bark of twisted trees, through carved wards meant to keep time itself sealed.It reached the vault last.The spiral vault. The sacred one.Where the Eye of Elara had been entombed for over a hundred years.Saphira felt it before any of the wards flinched.She was inside, at the center of the vault, her lone remaining eye glowing dimly in the low light. Her palms rested against the crystal cocoon that held the Eye, a relic whispered to be carved from the starlit bones of a wyrm slain by Elara in her final campaign, and sealed with the last tear the queen had shed.The Eye pulsed now.Slowly.Steadily.A heartbeat she hadn’t felt in a century.And it was calling.Not aloud. Not through vision.Through knowing.Saphira breat
They marched at dawn.Not because strategy demanded it. Not because any general barked orders or measured the odds. Not because a prophecy ticked down the hours.They marched because the light had changed.The sun bled softly across the ashen plains, touching ruined stone and scorched fields with a gentleness no one had felt in decades. It wasn’t brighter—just… gentler. As if the morning itself was offering the world a second chance.At the front, Seren walked alone.The Starbrand rested along her back, no longer pulsing in warning, but settled, as if it too was learning a new language. The spiral at her throat shimmered, not with threat, but with calm, as though breath itself had become visible, a quiet halo at her every step.Behind her came the Ashborn.There was no armor, no gleaming regalia. Their veils—dyed from ember, soot, and shadow—moved in time with the breeze, whispering the names of every city lost, every vow remade. They carried no banners, only staffs and blades reclaim
They came at dusk.Three witches robed in flame-silk, their garments tattered by time, their movements soundless. Their faces were half-burned, half-veiled, and their mouths sealed shut with threads of ember-iron, an oath no fire could melt.No one saw them arrive.No footsteps echoed. No scent betrayed their presence. They simply appeared, at the edge of the fire wards that protected the Ashborn camp, standing like memories carved from smoke and sorrow.Their presence was wrong in the way old magic was wrong, like a wound in time that refused to close.Seren met them first.She did not call for guards. Did not raise the Starbrand. Did not speak.She simply stepped toward them, spine unbent, eyes quiet.And waited.The tallest witch bowed, not stiffly, not in deference, but in ritual. An old gesture from before the Accord burned.From within her scorched sleeve, she drew a scroll. It was sealed in wax shaped like a wolf’s fang, bound in a crown of thorns blackened by spellfire.She of
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