All Chapters of The White Wolf Luna: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The chamber throbbed very slightly not with motion or radiance, but with the tangible presence of breathing, as a room might inhale itself at that moment that eye opened in the reflection, steady and unblinking, not time-bound and not death-bound, not even memory-bound, but made, instead, sharp and intense through a combination of all the three. Fenric did not flinch off the pool. No, he came nearer as something, not born of fear, but something new and utterly different, a hinting low awareness of this he could not tell, came to him, a feeling in his bones in answer to a call never made.Kaela was crouching right behind him, very stiff, not to fight, but waiting an impossibility as though she could feel in the air the gradual undoing of history out of sound or chronicle, but in the coldness of the air against her cheeks. Sira went nearer the wall of the chamber and softly her little silverlight gathered in her hand like the thought of thread remembering its use and already murmuring

The sound tore through the summit, not like thunder or explosion, but like memory cracking under the weight of truth too long buried.It was not an echo.-It was inward, through bone and blood and breath, a scream that had never been heard and had always been felt, transmitted through the generations as though a kind of marrow-born legacy. Kaela faltered to an only knee, and her blades fell to the ground and the ringing of her ears was like a voice that had no place in this world, not that it is unfamiliar, but that it had been familiar and been snatched away. Raelin snarled and dropped to all fours, her hands clutching the dirt, her body shifting against her will as her wolf form pushed against her skin, not out of choice, but in protest. Sira clenched her fists, her silverlight flaring and then vanishing entirely, sucked inward by the force of the ritual Syra had unleashed.Fenric did not fall.He stood on the threshold of the circle of rites, and his breathing was heavy, and as he s

The path to the Council Den was not mapped in any known territory scroll, nor carved into any stone the living could read. It was a memory-path, written into the bones of the realm long before borders were drawn or bloodlines claimed dominion. No wolf could walk it unless the thread allowed them, and until Fenric had spoken the names and shattered the ritual at the mountain’s summit, the path had remained sealed for generations.Now it opened like a wound.Fenric moved first, his feet tentative, involuntary, not swayed by instinctive inclination, or scent, but by the even beat of that thread in him. It did not hum as it had once. It throbbed, more heavily, a promise, though he could not yet say whether it was a warning or promise. Kaela, behind him, was striding along on twin blades slung across her back, and her eyes swept every curve of the ridge, not in fear, but in preparation. Sira walked on dusky, her silverlight stilled, not turned off but condensed, gathered, as though the moo

The light did not burn. It did not scorch or blind. It peeled. Layer by layer, it stripped away illusion, silence, history as it had been recited and rewritten and weaponized. It moved through the chamber like breath after drowning, like a truth breaking surface after being buried for lifetimes. And in the heart of it stood Fenric, hand wrapped around the final chain, his body arched in tension, not from pain, but from inheritance.He felt every name inside him stir. Every wolf who had been erased from the first song. Every Alpha silenced for choosing compassion. Every rogue who died refusing to kneel. They rose through him like a howl that could never be caged again.The chain cracked, not like metal, but like memory. The glyphs did not fade. They folded inward, retreating into the core of the link, as if acknowledging they were no longer needed. The root shifted. The figure once bound to it dissolved, not in death, not in defeat, but in relief, a final breath long delayed finally es

There was no sound in the whiteness. No form, no edge, no air. Only pressure, and memory, and the sharp, bone-deep certainty that something had broken, something old and sacred and binding, something that had once held the world in shape and was now unraveling thread by thread. Fenric floated in the middle of it, or stood, or knelt, he could not tell. There was no ground to mark distance, no sky to define above from below. There was only the hum of his own blood, carrying too many names, too many stories, none of which had prepared him for this.The last thing he remembered clearly was Syra’s voice, not cold, not cruel, but wide open with desperation. She had spoken the truth not the polished kind spoken in councils or passed down in oaths, but the unfiltered kind that came from grief, from longing, from the unbearable hunger to be seen.Choose now, brother.He had tried.But the choice had been shattered before it could land.Somewhere behind the whiteness, he felt Kaela’s presence,