Semua Bab The White Wolf Luna: Bab 111 - Bab 120

The stairs spiraled downward, far deeper than any foundation stone of the Den should have allowed. Each step echoed dully, not against stone, but against something far denser walls that absorbed sound as though they were built not to guide wolves, but to keep them from hearing what waited below.There was no light beyond what Sira conjured, and even that seemed hesitant, casting more shadow than clarity. Her silverlight flickered against the narrow walls, revealing old carvings, but these were not glyphs. They were symbols, layered, overlapping, some scratched out violently and others etched with a reverence that defied time. And between them all, over and over, a single repeating mark: a broken crescent, fractured through the middle.Fenric recognized it instantly. It was the mark Syra had once traced in the air with her fingertip, the one she claimed to have been born beneath, the one the Elders never spoke of.The Mark of the Moon Before.They reached the bottom at last.The air wa

The gate split slowly. Stone peeled back with the sound of old teeth grinding through centuries, slow and deliberate, revealing not Fenric but a hallway steeped in gold light and silence. The stairwell he had fallen through was gone now, replaced by a sloping path that shimmered faintly, as if heat clung to its surface, though the air remained cold and stale.Sira stood first. She did not rush forward. She waited, each breath held in her throat, as her silverlight surged faintly beneath her skin, ready to flare at the first sign that what emerged from that golden passage was not Fenric but something wearing his name.Kaela’s hand had already found the hilt of her blade, though she made no move to draw it. Her body was still, but her eyes moved constantly, scanning for weakness, for change, for anything that would prove what they feared in silence, that the chamber had returned something else.Raelin remained at the edge of the room, her arms crossed, her weight shifted back, as though

The moon had emerged from behind the clouds in full, not shattered or shrouded or dimmed as it had been in recent nights, but clear and painfully bright, casting silver across the mountain ridge in such a way that it made every torchlight seem small and artificial by comparison. Its light did not favor either side. It illuminated all the line of Talric’s soldiers in their armor stamped with old loyalties, the small but unyielding group that stood beside Fenric, and the broken stone grave behind them that had, until tonight, been sealed for over three generations.Fenric did not move from where he stood at the crest. He watched Talric carefully, not in fear, but in recognition. They were not strangers. They had fought once on the same side during the last border cull, had shared fire and silence in the night after burying wolves whose names neither had been allowed to speak. They had never been friends, never truly allies, but they had known the same hunger for justice at least, they h

It had been three days since the ridge standoff, and the Den had begun to change in ways that could not be undone. The outer chambers, once reserved for bloodline Alphas and their lieutenants, had opened to younger voices, to wolves who had never been given seats or rank or legacy but now found themselves invited to speak, not as subordinates, but as keepers of stories. The corridors that once echoed with the firm, clipped footfalls of Elders now carried different sounds, quiet conversations between wolves who had been trained to obey and had suddenly been asked to remember instead.The shift had not been violent. It had been quiet, and that quiet had proved more unsettling than chaos.Fenric sat in the northern chamber beneath the tall arch where the ceiling had long ago cracked and let in the stars. The thread lay before him, still coiled in its length of light, neither bright nor dull, pulsing steadily like breath in sleep. He did not touch it. It had not burned him. It had not ch

The door did not creak as it opened, nor did it groan like some ancient vault forced wide by strength. Instead, it breathed slowly and deeply as though exhaling after centuries of stillness, as though the passage beyond had been listening through stone and shadow, waiting not for the curious or the courageous, but for the one whose arrival had been foretold in silence rather than ink. Fenric stood at the threshold, his eyes drawn not to the shifting light beyond, but to the absence of scent, the vacuum of memory that seemed to swallow even the torchlight behind them. It was not darkness that waited, not void, but something more dangerous, something unreadable.The wolves who had emerged from the deeper shrine watched him with faces that bore no accusation, only expectation. Their posture was still, their expressions unreadable, their presence somehow quieter than breath. Kaela remained close behind him, her hands no longer on her blades, but her body still ready to move at a moment's