Princess zetulah Viridian POV:
"Hold him down."
The command splits the air. Whip-sharp. Brutal.
Fenrik thrashes, muscles straining against Emberclaw gauntlets. His breath is ragged, his lip split wide, dripping red onto the cracked sigil of our house—Viridian. Broken. Like him.
Three days ago, we sparred in the courtyard, sun glinting off his blade.
"You'll never beat me, Zee."
Laughter. Light.
Now? His blood pools at my feet.
I press against the jagged remains of a pillar, stone biting into my palm. Breathe. Just—breathe.
They've got him.
No. No, no—
Pulse roars, louder than the distant fires.
Fenrik snarls as a soldier drives a fist into his ribs. The crack is sickening. He spits blood, grinning, eyes gleaming wild. "That all you've got?"
The Emberclaw wolves laugh. A soldier yanks his head back by the hair. "Stubborn bastard."
The moon hangs bloated above us—red and wrong. Blood moon. Omen.
Below? Home.
Was home.
Viridian banners curl into ash, devoured by flames. Smoke thickens the air—burnt pine, roasted meat, death. Emberclaw wolves stalk through the ruins, claws glistening with my brother's blood.
"Prince Fenrik Viridian."
The captain steps forward, blade gleaming silver. A death sentence wrapped in steel.
"By Emberclaw's will, you die tonight."
Fenrik chuckles. Raw. Ruined. "Then do it."
Tears blur my vision. I dig my nails into the stone until they crack. Shift. Fight. Die with him.
He turns—just enough.
Our eyes meet through the smoke.
"Run."
His lips shape the word. Survive.
I shake my head. Can't leave him. Can't—
The sword rises.
Flashes. Falls.
My scream is nothing.
The blade bites deep.
Fenrik jerks. Blood pools. Too much.
Laughter ripples through Emberclaw ranks—muffled. Distant. Like drowning.
I can't breathe. Can't—
A hand clamps over my mouth.
"Don't."
Viridian armor. One of ours.
I drive an elbow into his gut. Hard. "Let me go!"
"You die, our house dies."
I don't remember running. Just the blur of ground, the smoke thick in my throat, Fenrik's blood still warm on my hands.
Legs burn. My lungs scream. The night stinks of death.
The soldier—scarred cheek, iron grip—drags me forward, knows I'll turn back.
And he's right. I want to. Want to rip out red-eyed throats, let them choke on their own blood.
But Fenrik's voice: Run. Survive.
Branches lash my face. The scent of pine does nothing to mask the stench of burning flesh.
The battle fades behind us.
Then—
A growl. Low. Too close.
The soldier halts. I slam into him.
We're not alone.
A shape moves—slow, deliberate. Golden armor catches the moonlight.
Emberclaw's prince.
Kaelith.
My breath hitches.
He's not in wolf form. Just… standing. Half-shadowed. Watching.
His eyes lock onto mine.
He's younger than I expected. Softer features. But his gaze—red-gold, calculating.
Why isn't he attacking?
His sword stays sheathed.
His lips part—about to speak—
The soldier lunges.
Mistake.
Kaelith sidesteps. One motion. Effortless.
His wrist snaps. Bone cracks. The soldier crumples.
Still—no killing blow.
"I saw you." Kaelith's voice is quiet. Too quiet.
"At the execution."
My pulse hammers. Don't move.
"You're Viridian." His head tilts. Studying me.
"You should be dead."
I bare my teeth. "So should you."
Something flickers in his expression. Amusement? Pity?
The Blood Moon watches.
Kaelith glances at the groaning soldier.
"Run."
My pulse slams against my ribs. Trick?
"Go." His jaw tightens. "Before I change my mind."
He's letting me leave. Why?
No time to ask.
The soldier grabs me, stumbling into the trees.
I don't look back.
But I feel his stare.
We stop. The soldier collapses, clutching his wrist.
I don't care.
The Blood Moon glares down at me. At Fenrik's murderer.
My fists clench. My chest heaves.
I'll come back.
I swear it.
My voice is raw, guttural. Not my own.
"I'll salt their fields."
"Let the crows feast on their bones."
The Blood Moon doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
My body shakes.
Promise.
House Emberclaw won't just fall.
They'll drown in their own blood.
And I'll watch.
—----------
The forest claws at me, branches snagging my cloak like bony fingers. Smoke burns my nose—thick, nasty stuff that reeks of burnt wood and… gods, is that flesh?
Home.
What's left of it glows behind us, crackling like some sick funeral pyre for House Viridian.
Taron's grip digs into my wrist, his rough hands slick with blood. My guard. My friend. The only face I still know in this nightmare.
"Faster, Zee," he croaks, voice shredded like old parchment. That gash at his ribs pulses black under the moon, a wound he's been bleeding from since we bolted. But he never stops. Not once.
Because of me.
The last clang of steel dies in the distance. No screams left. No war cries. Just groaning trees and my heartbeat pounding in my skull.
Too quiet.
I glance back. The stronghold is a jagged cut on the horizon, ruins black against a swollen red moon. Our banners—once proud emerald and silver—twist in the flames like dying eels.
Taron stumbles. He slams a hand against an oak, blood dripping between his fingers, shiny-wet. Too much. Way too much.
"Close," he growls. His ears twitch—wolf instincts buried in human bones.
Mine prick, too. Hear what he hears.
Breathing.
Not ours.
The wind shifts, curling the stink of burnt fur into my lungs. Emberclaw.
Taron yanks his sword free. The moonlight glints off its crusted edge—Viridian green blood mixing with Emberclaw red. "When I say run," he mutters, "you run."
"Not leaving you."
"Last heir." His amber eyes pin me. No arguing. "Run."
A branch snaps.
Too close.
An Emberclaw bastard explodes from the shadows, bones breaking as he shifts mid-air. Fur sprouts. Claws curve like sickles. Half-wolf. Half-monster.
All killer.
He slams into Taron. They crash down, fangs and steel. Taron's blade bites deep into the wolf's shoulder—blood sprays—but the bastard grins. Claws punch into Taron's gut.
No.
A wet rip.
Taron's breath hitches. His gaze flicks to me—not in pain, but warning. Go.
The Emberclaw yanks his claws free.
Taron drops.
"One down," the warrior smirks, licking blood off his claws. His ember-glow eyes flick to me. "Now for the little princ—"
I scream.
Fire erupts in my veins—muscles tearing, bones snapping. My skin burns as my form twists, surges, awakens.
The world sharpens. Scents punch into me—iron, rot, fear. His fear.
I move faster than he can blink.
My claws find his throat.
Heat spills over my hands, thick and wet. His eyes bulge, shock carving lines into his ugly mug. He gurgles. Staggers. Knees buckle.
I don't let up.
"This," I snarl, twisting deep, "is for Taron."
His body thuds.
Silence.
My breath comes ragged, the shift still buzzing under my skin. What did I just—
Taron lies still, his sword stuck in the dirt. I kneel, blood soaking my knees. His face is chalky, lips barely parted.
I touch his cheek.
Cold.
The wind shifts.
Snap. Crackle. Fire.
I stand.
Four Emberclaw thugs step into the clearing.
Their armor is caked in blood. The leader is a mountain with a chewed-up ear, flames licking his claws.
"Princess Zetulah," he drawls. "Been busy, huh?"
I bare my fangs.
He circles, boots crunching leaves. "Your brother's head is on your gate." His tongue flicks over sharp teeth. "But you… you're worth more breathing."
"Come closer," I whisper. "See how alive I am."
He barks a laugh. "Feisty. I'll enjoy breakin' y—"
I lunge.
Claws meet fire.
Pain. My arm burns, the heat sinking to bone. I slash his chest—leather, flesh, all of it. He roars and backhands me into a tree. Ribs crack.
"You'll pay for that, bitch!"
The others rush.
I spin. Dodge a claw swipe. Bite into a thigh. He howls.
A fist smashes into my spine.
I crumple, vision swimming. The leader looms, fire licking his knuckles.
"On your knees," he snarls.
Never.
I spit blood on his boots.
He raises a flaming claw. "Your choice."
Silver flashes.
The Emberclaw beside him gags, clutching his throat. Blood sprays. His head rolls.
The others freeze.
A figure steps from the shadows.
Tall. Cloaked in black. A silver blade, dripping. A crescent moon etched into the hilt—House Moriba.
No.
His gold eyes pin me, sharp as a knife's edge.
"Tough to find, Princess."
His voice is silk over steel.
The Emberclaw snarls. "
Moriba trash! Not your fight!"
The stranger cocks his head. "Isn't it?"
He moves.
Too fast.
A blade flashes. A gurgle. Another corpse hits the dirt.
The leader stumbles back, eyes wide.
The stranger steps closer, voice a whisper.
"This one's mine."