A Stranger at the Gate
The gates of Silverfang loomed ahead—taller than she remembered, guarded by steel and warriors with hollow eyes.
The scent of pine and blood lingered in the air, mingling with something colder, something more foreboding. Time hadn't softened the memories; the walls of this place still whispered of betrayal and power.
And now, it was her turn to play the part of a stranger.
Lysandra—Selene no more—pulled the hood tighter around her face. Her hair had grown longer, darker, and her scent was cloaked with the pungent herbs and rogue-dust Eira had carefully mixed for her, masking everything that could give her away.
She approached slowly, barefoot, limping slightly. A show of weakness. A performance.
"Halt!"
A voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding.
Two warriors stepped forward, their eyes narrowing as they assessed her. One of them shifted partially, claws emerging from his fingers, his posture tense as he advanced.
"Who are you? What business do you have here?"
The growl in his voice was low, threatening.
"I seek shelter," she said hoarsely, deliberately ragged. "Food. Safety."
"You're a rogue."
The second warrior sneered, his eyes flicking over her.
"We don't take in strays."
She coughed, the rasping sound like a crack in her voice. Then she added,
"I have... information. About a threat. One tied to your Alpha."
The mention of her enemy—their Alpha—stilled the warriors, their expressions hardening as they exchanged a brief, unreadable glance.
"Get Beta Rowan," the first one muttered.
Minutes dragged by before footsteps echoed along the gravel trail. Then, a tall man with a scar over his eye emerged from the shadows—Beta Rowan, loyal to Damon Blackwood.
He eyed her cautiously, his posture rigid, a clear signal of the power he wielded within the pack.
"What threat?" His voice was guarded, his gaze assessing.
"I was part of a rogue group near the Wailing Caves," she lied smoothly, her voice calm and sure.
"They're planning something. Blood magic. They mentioned Silverfang... and the name Zera."
Rowan's eyes flickered with recognition. He tensed.
"Let me speak to your Alpha," she pressed, her voice low but demanding. "If I'm lying, kill me."
A long silence stretched between them. The weight of her words hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. Finally, Rowan nodded sharply. "Bring her in. Watch her."
Lysandra lowered her gaze as they led her through the gates. Every step carried the weight of history—of betrayal, of death. But inside, her heart pounded like a drumbeat.
She was home.
Where she died.
Where she would rise.
The gates loomed like ancient sentinels, their towering forms still standing strong after all these years.
As Lysandra crossed into Silverfang's territory, she kept her hood low, her movements calculated and deliberate. She could feel the weight of every set of eyes upon her, but she didn't falter. She couldn't. Not yet.
The sigil of the moon, etched into the stone arch, twisted something inside her. She had once worn that symbol with pride. Now, it felt like a scar on her soul—one that she couldn't erase, no matter how hard she tried.
The pack grounds hadn't changed. The courtyard still smelled of pine and iron. The training grounds still echoed with the rhythmic clashes of steel, the low growls of sparring warriors.
But to Selene, it all felt colder. Harsher. The laughter that once filled the air had been scrubbed out, replaced with a deep, unsettling silence.
She passed by the Luna quarters—her old home.
The windows were dark now, covered with thick curtains that blocked out the sun. A vine had crept up the stone, curling against the balcony where she had once stood beside Damon, watching the moon rise, their hands intertwined.
No one had lived there since her death.
A bitter smirk ghosted her lips as she walked past. Good. Let the place rot with the lies they buried her under. Let them remember her as a myth. A ghost.
Her stomach twisted at the thought of Damon, his hands stained with her blood, his words still echoing in her mind.
"I had no choice." His face—her husband, her mate—flickered in her memory like a fading flame.
She kept moving. Her cover as a rescued rogue afforded her low-level pack status, and for now, that was enough. No one looked too closely. She was just another stray wolf, another forgotten life.
At the barracks, Eira and Riven were waiting—her shadows, her allies in this silent war.
"You shouldn't be out so long," Riven murmured, his voice a low whisper.
"Too many eyes."
"They don't recognize me,"
she replied flatly, brushing dust from her sleeve.
"Not even the ones who swore loyalty to me."
"You died, Selene."
Eira said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of truth.
"To them, you're a myth."
Or a mistake.
Selene paced the room, her mind a storm of plans and emotions. The Moon Goddess had warned her of the dangers of this power—of what could happen if she let it consume her too soon.
But it wasn't just power she craved. It was justice. It was revenge.
She could feel her abilities pulsing beneath her skin, every nerve alive with the magic she had once kept dormant. She had hidden it so long, but now it clawed at her from within, begging for release.
Tomorrow, she would start digging.
She dropped onto a cot, pulling the crescent moon pendant from beneath her collar—a gift from the Moon Goddess herself. It glowed faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
"Tomorrow," she whispered to herself.
"I start digging."
---
That night, the dreams came.
The Moon Temple, ancient and buried in vines. A voice calling her name. Damon's face shifting, transforming from shadow to flame, flickering like a distant memory.
She woke with a start, drenched in sweat, her breath shallow and uneven. Her chest ached as if the weight of her past had finally come crashing down.
The reality of her mission threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed it aside.
Get it together, she told herself. You're not here to grieve. You're here to end this.
---
The next day, she slipped into the pack archives, disguised as a messenger delivering training scrolls. The building was quiet, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and forgotten memories.
Every step she took echoed off the stone walls, whispering reminders of the past she wasn't ready to face.
She moved quickly, her fingers skimming the spines of records—births, deaths, bond markings. The histories of wolves long gone.
Her fingers stopped at a thin file marked Selene Hale.
Too thin.
She opened it, her breath catching in her throat. The file contained a single sheet of paper. Cause of death: wild rogue attack during border patrol.
No mention of her confrontation with Damon. No mention of the betrayal. Not even a record of her burial.
Her heart turned to ice.
"They erased me."
she whispered, her voice tight with disbelief.
"Completely."
Behind her, a voice broke the silence, deep and unmistakable.
"You're not supposed to be in here."
Selene froze.
The voice was sharp, familiar, and it sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned slowly.
And there he was—Damon Blackwood, Alpha of Silverfang. His presence filled the room, his dark eyes locked onto hers, the scent of power crackling off him like a storm about to break.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes.
Confusion.Recognition?
Or was it just a trick of the light?
Selene swallowed, keeping her face neutral, hiding every ounce of emotion that threatened to break free.
"I was just… delivering scrolls."
She said, her voice calm, even as it trembled inside her.
Damon stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.
"What's your name?"
Her mouth went dry. This was the moment. The moment where everything could unravel.
She forced a smile, but it felt foreign, as if it didn't belong to her.
"Lysandra."
She said softly.
"Rogue. Recently assigned to the lower barracks."
Another long pause. Damon studied her with an intensity that made her blood run cold.
"Have we met before?"
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
A thousand emotions screamed inside her—betrayal, rage, sorrow—but she only said:
"No, Alpha. We haven't."
---