The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 93: The sky was bleeding

Rhett sat tall atop his midnight-black steed, Stormbringer, the beast pawing the dirt as if it too sensed what was coming. His cloak billowed behind him, the insignia of his bloodline, a twin-headed wolf entwined in flame, etched into the back in silver thread. Every muscle in his body was wound tight with awareness, his pulse thundering like a war drum.

Beside him, Magnolia’s silver wolf eyes glowed faintly in the shadow of her hood. Her armor, dark lunarsteel trimmed with bone-white accents, molded to her body like a second skin. She didn’t speak, didn’t glance his way. But he felt her.

Felt her through the bond that had grown stronger with every encounter, every moment of shared pain, every night they didn’t sleep because the memories wouldn’t let them. Now it hummed between them like a live wire, sparking in his chest and pooling in his palms.

She finally turned. "If we die tonight, "

"We won’t," Rhett cut in, his voice low, rough.

"But if we do," she persisted, "know that it was never a curse. What we share... I’d choose it again."

He met her gaze. The world shrank until it was just her. Her messy braid tangled with bone charms. The scar above her lip from the first battle she won. The bite mark he’d left on her shoulder that she never healed. A thousand words unsaid passed between them.

Then Camille stepped from the tree line, cloaked in black, face pale as chalk.

Her lips barely moved. "They’re coming. Sterling sent scouts. You’ve got an hour."

Magnolia dismounted. "You shouldn’t be here."

"I had to see it," Camille replied, her voice distant. "I had to see the prophecy unfold. The blood moon. The Alpha pair. The last Luna daughter walking toward the gate of her death."

Rhett narrowed his eyes. "You speak like someone watching a play. Whose side are you on?"

Camille didn’t answer. Instead, she walked to the edge of the hill where the land dipped into the jagged cliffs surrounding Hollowfang. Her cloak fluttered like a raven’s wing in the wind. She raised a hand.

Below, Sterling’s army crawled across the valley floor. Dark figures in rows, their banners high, black with a golden serpent’s tongue, Sterling’s sigil. Massive beasts with armored hides pulled war chariots. Spellcasters in crimson hoods followed closely behind, muttering incantations that made the air shiver.

Camille’s voice trembled. "He’ll use the blood of the Alpha to crown himself. That’s what he needs. One drop from each of you."

"And you’re helping him?" Magnolia asked.

"No," she whispered. "Not anymore."

She reached into her satchel and pulled out a silver blade. "This was meant for you."

Magnolia didn’t flinch. "Then use it."

"I won’t. But he will." Camille held the knife out. "Take it. End it before he begins."

Thunder rolled across the horizon. A distant howl echoed through the valley. Not just any howl, it carried command, fury, and hunger.

Rhett turned his horse, his voice steel. "Mount up. We ride now."

Camille remained where she was. "I’ll stay. I’ve seen what comes next."

"You don’t know everything," Magnolia said.

"No. But I know this." She turned to them, her eyes glowing faintly. "The prophecy won’t end in battle. It ends in choice. One of you must die."

Rhett stiffened. "We make our own fate."

Camille smiled. "So did I."

As they descended into Hollowfang, dust rising behind them, Camille stood alone. Her hands trembled, but her voice didn’t.

She raised her head to the bleeding sky. "Let the prophecy choose."

Behind her, the trees whispered. The forest moved.

And from the shadows, a second Camille stepped out.

Identical.

But her eyes were black.

The wind howled like a beast in mourning, rattling the ancient stained-glass windows of the eastern wing of the manor. Magnolia stood motionless beneath the vaulted ceiling of the lunar hall, rain sliding in rivulets down the arched panes. The air smelled of damp stone, burning sage, and something older, dust laced with the metallic scent of memory.

The room, long abandoned, pulsed with energy. Candles flickered along the curved wall, their flames bowing toward the center of the room as if in reverence. The storm outside had forced the ceremony indoors, but it was the storm inside her that held Magnolia still. Her eyes, wide and reflective, clung to the tapestry unfurling before her like a memory too raw to voice.

The tapestry was massive, stretching nearly the length of the far wall, woven in threads so fine they shimmered under candlelight. Silver and deep crimson strands danced through depictions of wolves not as beasts, but women, hooded and cloaked, fingers glowing, eyes painted like mirrors of the moon. At the center was a single figure: bare-chested, arms outstretched to the stars, a crescent carved into her belly.

"That one," Celeste’s voice whispered beside her, calm and razor-sharp, "is Aevora, the first Spellbinder."

Magnolia’s breath trembled in her chest. She turned, slowly, but didn’t meet Celeste’s eyes. "Spellbinder?"

Celeste, robed in velvet the color of drying blood, stepped forward, her silver braids catching the candlelight. "Long before Alphas ruled, before the packs were bound by blood and oath, there were women who spoke to the moon in her true tongue. Not followers. Not vessels. Rulers. Makers of fate."

Magnolia’s voice cracked. "Witches."

Celeste nodded. "To the cowards of the council, yes. To the rest of us? Spellbinders. You are her blood. You descend from the bloodline erased from every sanctioned scroll."

Magnolia took a step back, her chest rising and falling too quickly. "No. My father, he was pack-born. Pure. He said we came from the northern river line."

"He lied," Celeste replied, with no venom. Just fact.

The truth struck harder than any war blade. Magnolia looked down at her hands, pale and trembling. They were the same hands that had commanded soldiers, held Rhett when he bled, struck Beckett across the cheek in fury. But now they felt like someone else’s. Like they belonged to something ancient and monstrous.

"You knew," she said, a whisper laced with betrayal. "You knew this whole time."

Celeste met her gaze. "I suspected. I waited. You needed to find it first. Power isn’t given, child. It awakens when you’re desperate enough to need it."

Thunder rolled through the stone like a warning drum. Magnolia turned back to the tapestry. Her fingertips hovered inches from the thread that outlined Aevora’s face.

"When?" she asked. "When did it start?"

Celeste’s lips tightened. "The moment you defied Sterling. When your wolf refused to bow to his."

Magnolia closed her eyes. She remembered that day, the weight of Sterling’s hand on her shoulder, the hiss of his whisper: "Submit, or watch them burn." And the answer had come, not in words, but in the roaring silence within her. Her wolf had risen not in obedience, but in fury.

Now, beneath the stained glass and the hum of candlelight, that same fury coiled in her spine. But it wasn’t rage. It was purpose.

Celeste moved closer. "This is your inheritance. Not a throne. Not a mate. Power. Raw and unshaped. And you will be hunted for it."

Magnolia looked up. Her eyes were colder than the rain slamming against the walls.

"Let them come," she said.

A pulse beat through the room, soft, like a heart behind the walls. The tapestry shimmered. Aevora’s embroidered crescent flared briefly, then dimmed.

Magnolia stumbled back, breath catching.

"What was that?"

Celeste tilted her head. "It responds to you. She does."

Magnolia stared at the tapestry. Her skin prickled, blood singing beneath it. Something had shifted.

Celeste’s voice dropped. "You felt it, didn’t you?"

Magnolia nodded. "It felt like..." She shook her head. "Like being watched by something... ancient. Alive."

"You’re awakening."

Magnolia swayed. Her knees buckled slightly, but Celeste steadied her with an arm that felt like iron beneath silk.

"Easy," the older woman said. "It begins with visions. Then dreams. Then power."

"And after that?"

Celeste’s lips parted slowly. "Then comes the reckoning."

A flash of lightning cut across the hall, illuminating Magnolia’s face. Her eyes glowed faintly, like the moon through smoke. The wind outside shrieked as though answering her blood.

A gust blew the doors wide. Cold air whipped through the room.

But Magnolia didn’t flinch. She stepped forward and placed her palm against the tapestry.

The candles flickered. The wall trembled. And somewhere deep below the manor, something groaned in response.

The floor beneath her feet vibrated.

Celeste stiffened. "You called it."

Magnolia looked over her shoulder. "Called what?"

But Celeste was already moving, gathering herbs from her satchel, muttering chants under her breath. "We need salt. A circle. You should not have touched it yet."

"What did I just awaken?" Magnolia asked, backing away.

Celeste turned to her, eyes wide for the first time. "The past."

The wind inside the hall hissed. A voice, not loud, not angry, but heartbreakingly familiar, whispered from the dark corner of the room.

"Magnolia... come back..."

Magnolia froze. That voice. Her sister’s. Long dead.

She turned slowly.

Nothing was there.

Just the flicker of candlelight. Just the sound of her name echoing where no echo should form.

Celeste grabbed her shoulder. "Don’t answer it."

Magnolia swallowed hard. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

"Why does it sound like her?"

Celeste didn’t answer.

The wind outside howled louder. The floor groaned again.

Magnolia looked down. A single thread from the tapestry had unspooled itself, winding gently around her wrist.

Celeste slapped her hand away and burned the thread with the tip of a candle.

"We have to go," she said.

"Where?"

Celeste stared toward the hallway. "Below."

Magnolia hesitated. "To what?"

Celeste didn’t blink. "To the vault. To the thing you just woke."

And as the last candle went out, Magnolia felt it, a heartbeat not hers, pulsing beneath the stone.

Waiting.

The wind howled like a beast in mourning, rattling the ancient stained-glass windows of the eastern wing of the manor. Magnolia stood motionless beneath the vaulted ceiling of the lunar hall, rain sliding in rivulets down the arched panes. The air smelled of damp stone, burning sage, and something older, dust laced with the metallic scent of memory.

The room, long abandoned, pulsed with energy. Candles flickered along the curved wall, their flames bowing toward the center of the room as if in reverence. The storm outside had forced the ceremony indoors, but it was the storm inside her that held Magnolia still. Her eyes, wide and reflective, clung to the tapestry unfurling before her like a memory too raw to voice.

The tapestry was massive, stretching nearly the length of the far wall, woven in threads so fine they shimmered under candlelight. Silver and deep crimson strands danced through depictions of wolves not as beasts, but women, hooded and cloaked, fingers glowing, eyes painted like mirrors of the moon. At the center was a single figure: bare-chested, arms outstretched to the stars, a crescent carved into her belly.

"That one," Celeste’s voice whispered beside her, calm and razor-sharp, "is Aevora, the first Spellbinder."

Magnolia’s breath trembled in her chest. She turned, slowly, but didn’t meet Celeste’s eyes. "Spellbinder?"

Celeste, robed in velvet the color of drying blood, stepped forward, her silver braids catching the candlelight. "Long before Alphas ruled, before the packs were bound by blood and oath, there were women who spoke to the moon in her true tongue. Not followers. Not vessels. Rulers. Makers of fate."

Magnolia’s voice cracked. "Witches."

Celeste nodded. "To the cowards of the council, yes. To the rest of us? Spellbinders. You are her blood. You descend from the bloodline erased from every sanctioned scroll."

Magnolia took a step back, her chest rising and falling too quickly. "No. My father, he was pack-born. Pure. He said we came from the northern river line."

"He lied," Celeste replied, with no venom. Just fact.

The truth struck harder than any war blade. Magnolia looked down at her hands, pale and trembling. They were the same hands that had commanded soldiers, held Rhett when he bled, struck Beckett across the cheek in fury. But now they felt like someone else’s. Like they belonged to something ancient and monstrous.

"You knew," she said, a whisper laced with betrayal. "You knew this whole time."

Celeste met her gaze. "I suspected. I waited. You needed to find it first. Power isn’t given, child. It awakens when you’re desperate enough to need it."

Thunder rolled through the stone like a warning drum. Magnolia turned back to the tapestry. Her fingertips hovered inches from the thread that outlined Aevora’s face.

"When?" she asked. "When did it start?"

Celeste’s lips tightened. "The moment you defied Sterling. When your wolf refused to bow to his."

Magnolia closed her eyes. She remembered that day, the weight of Sterling’s hand on her shoulder, the hiss of his whisper: "Submit, or watch them burn." And the answer had come, not in words, but in the roaring silence within her. Her wolf had risen not in obedience, but in fury.

Now, beneath the stained glass and the hum of candlelight, that same fury coiled in her spine. But it wasn’t rage. It was purpose.

Celeste moved closer. "This is your inheritance. Not a throne. Not a mate. Power. Raw and unshaped. And you will be hunted for it."

Magnolia looked up. Her eyes were colder than the rain slamming against the walls.

"Let them come," she said.

A pulse beat through the room, soft, like a heart behind the walls. The tapestry shimmered. Aevora’s embroidered crescent flared briefly, then dimmed.

Magnolia stumbled back, breath catching.

"What was that?"

Celeste tilted her head. "It responds to you. She does."

Magnolia stared at the tapestry. Her skin prickled, blood singing beneath it. Something had shifted.

Celeste’s voice dropped. "You felt it, didn’t you?"

Magnolia nodded. "It felt like..." She shook her head. "Like being watched by something... ancient. Alive."

"You’re awakening."

Magnolia swayed. Her knees buckled slightly, but Celeste steadied her with an arm that felt like iron beneath silk.

"Easy," the older woman said. "It begins with visions. Then dreams. Then power."

"And after that?"

Celeste’s lips parted slowly. "Then comes the reckoning."

A flash of lightning cut across the hall, illuminating Magnolia’s face. Her eyes glowed faintly, like the moon through smoke. The wind outside shrieked as though answering her blood.

A gust blew the doors wide. Cold air whipped through the room.

But Magnolia didn’t flinch. She stepped forward and placed her palm against the tapestry.

The candles flickered. The wall trembled. And somewhere deep below the manor, something groaned in response.

The floor beneath her feet vibrated.

Celeste stiffened. "You called it."

Magnolia looked over her shoulder. "Called what?"

But Celeste was already moving, gathering herbs from her satchel, muttering chants under her breath. "We need salt. A circle. You should not have touched it yet."

"What did I just awaken?" Magnolia asked, backing away.

Celeste turned to her, eyes wide for the first time. "The past."

The wind inside the hall hissed. A voice, not loud, not angry, but heartbreakingly familiar, whispered from the dark corner of the room.

"Magnolia... come back..."

Magnolia froze. That voice. Her sister’s. Long dead.

She turned slowly.

Nothing was there.

Just the flicker of candlelight. Just the sound of her name echoing where no echo should form.

Celeste grabbed her shoulder. "Don’t answer it."

Magnolia swallowed hard. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

"Why does it sound like her?"

Celeste didn’t answer.

The wind outside howled louder. The floor groaned again.

Magnolia looked down. A single thread from the tapestry had unspooled itself, winding gently around her wrist.

Celeste slapped her hand away and burned the thread with the tip of a candle.

"We have to go," she said.

"Where?"

Celeste stared toward the hallway. "Below."

Magnolia hesitated. "To what?"

Celeste didn’t blink. "To the vault. To the thing you just woke."

And as the last candle went out, Magnolia felt it, a heartbeat not hers, pulsing beneath the stone.

Waiting.