It started with smoke.
Not incense.
Not ritual.
But fire.
Real.
Thick.
Burning.
The scent of seared stone and scorched fur ripped through the upper corridors.
By the time Elara reached the courtyard, the sky was bleeding red and black.
The Wolf Sanctum—the holiest altar of Kael's bloodline—was under siege.
"Get the young out!" someone shouted.
A priestess collapsed in front of her, silver embedded in her chest.
Screams echoed from the inner shrine.
Elara didn't hesitate.
She ran toward the flames.
The inside of the sanctum was chaos.
Walls cracked.
The sacred mural of the founding moon shattered.
And in the center, near the burning dais, a group of wolf children huddled together—crying, coughing, too scared to move.
Above them, perched on the balcony, a masked figure aimed a silver-bladed crossbow.
Elara didn't think.
She didn't plan.
She moved.
She threw herself across the room.
The arrow loosed.
She intercepted it midair.
It sliced through her ribs.
Sank deep.
Silver.
Her knees buckled.
The pain was immediate—sharp, burning, like acid dancing under her skin.
But she didn't stop.
She reached the children.
Shielded them with her body.
"You're going to be okay," she whispered.
They stared up at her—terrified, trusting.
A second arrow never came.
Because the balcony had begun to shake.
And from above—
Kael dropped.
He hit the floor with the force of a storm.
The masked attacker tried to flee.
Kael was faster.
He tore the man's mask off, bit down on his throat, and threw the body into the flames.
Then he turned.
And saw her.
"Elara—"
She collapsed.
Blood pooled under her.
The silver arrow still jutted from her side.
Kael was beside her in seconds.
He pressed a hand to the wound.
It hissed.
Her skin smoked.
"No," he breathed. "No, no, no—"
"I'm fine," she lied.
He lifted her into his arms.
"You're dying."
"No," she whispered again.
Then passed out.
She woke to heat.
Wet.
Thick.
The scent of iron.
She was in—
The blood pool.
A sacred chamber beneath the altar, where Kael's bloodline bathed in moon-blessed ichor to accelerate healing.
The liquid was warm.
Sticky.
Red as wrath.
Kael sat behind her in the water, holding her against his chest.
His breathing was ragged.
His arms trembled.
And across his body—
Crystals.
Pale.
Spreading.
From his ribs outward.
Silver infection.
"Healing you," he said hoarsely, "is killing me."
"Let go," she whispered.
"No."
"Kael—"
"No," he growled. "You saved them. Let me save you."
She turned in his arms.
Met his eyes.
"I didn't do it for them."
"I know."
She touched his chest.
Just above his heart.
The one place still unmarked.
Still skin.
Still soft.
She pressed her fingers there.
"You're crystallizing everywhere else."
He nodded.
"I know."
She leaned forward.
Whispered:
"Then let me mark this before the stone does."
And she bit him.
Right over his heart.
Not to wound.
But to claim.
Kael gasped.
Blood trickled down his chest.
Elara licked it away.
Their eyes met.
He whispered:
"You're the last part of me that still feels."
She answered:
"Then I'll break it too.So you never forget what it meant to have me."
The blood pool churned around them.
Their skin flushed with heat.
Not desire.
Not lust.
But burning.
The kind that branded.
That made memory permanent.
That turned pain into truth.
And when they finally rose from the pool, breathless, soaked, and trembling—
Kael kissed her hand.
And said:
"This isn't healing.This is warpaint."