Chapter Seven
The chamber was carved from obsidian and bone—ancient, suffocating, and far older than the packs that now ruled the surface world. Symbols pulsed across the black stone in crimson light, like veins beneath cracked skin.
And at the center of it stood Lucien.
Tall. Unmoving. A phantom of old wars and older sins.
His dark hair hung damp against his jaw, black as pitch, slicked with a metallic sheen from the blood ritual. His skin, unnaturally pale, shimmered faintly beneath the torchlight as if it held stardust trapped beneath it. His eyes—strange, unnatural, burning silver—did not blink.
Not once.
Lucien held a pendant in one hand—twin to the one Selene wore. Its pulse was slow. Weak. But it had responded.
"She's awakened it," he murmured. His voice was deep, cold, like frost over dying embers. "The blood remembers."
From the darkness, a shadowed figure emerged—hooded, faceless. One of his loyal revenants. "The prophecy moves faster than we anticipated."
"She was always the key," Lucien said, eyes still fixed on the pendant. "Even before they branded her cursed."
"She is bonded to your brother now."
Lucien's lip curled. "Not bonded. Not fully." He closed his fist around the pendant, and the shadows in the room shifted. "She will remember who touched her soul first."
The revenant knelt. "Shall we prepare the offering?"
Lucien stepped forward, the black robes swirling around his frame like they obeyed only him. "No. Let her come."
"To you?"
"To me. To the truth." A flash of fangs glinted behind his calm. "And if Ronan stands in her way—he'll die. Again."
The tunnels were breathing.
Selene could feel it now—soft, rhythmic pulses in the walls like the mountain itself had a heartbeat. Her pendant hadn't stopped glowing since the vision. Every step forward felt like walking into the pulse of something ancient… and hungry.
They hadn't spoken much.
Ronan's jaw was locked in that stoic way she now recognized as pain he refused to show. Caelan had taken point, silent but alert, eyes flicking at every crack in the stone.
The deeper they went, the colder it got.
Finally, Caelan paused. "We're near the seal."
Ronan's voice was low. "How can you tell?"
"I've been here once before." His eyes flicked back toward Selene. "When I was still hunting for her."
Her breath caught.
"You were sent for me?" she asked quietly.
Caelan gave a humorless smile. "More like warned about you. A hybrid female. Magic blood. Prophecy nightmare. You scared a lot of people, princess."
"I wasn't even awakened yet."
"That was the problem," Caelan muttered. "A bloodline like yours waking up without a tether? It's the kind of thing that makes elders start clawing at their own prophecies."
Selene hugged her arms around herself. "So what… they wanted to kill me before I remembered who I was?"
"Some did." Caelan shrugged, unfazed. "Others just wanted to keep you buried. Same result."
The tunnel narrowed. The stone under their feet changed—no longer natural rock, but something older. Crafted. The floor was smooth, etched with forgotten runes that shimmered faintly beneath their feet.
Selene whispered, "Where does this lead?"
Ronan's voice was grim. "To the Heartchamber. Where the original curse was sealed."
"And if it's unsealed?"
He didn't answer.
They reached a door—tall and crescent-shaped, carved with bloodlines and split crests. One side bore the mark of the Lunar Fang—the royal crest of Ronan's pack. The other was cracked, scorched… and covered in thorns.
"That's not yours," Selene said, staring at the blackened sigil.
"No," Ronan said quietly. "It's his."
Lucien's.
Selene stepped closer, her fingers tracing the crack that separated both symbols. "They were once united."
Caelan gave a short nod. "The royal twins. Born to end the war between bloodlines. Instead, they started a worse one."
"And me?"
Ronan turned to her. "You're the anchor."
Selene blinked. "What does that even mean?"
He stepped closer, voice low. "The prophecy wasn't just about destruction. It was about balance. You were supposed to bind the bloodlines together… through love."
Selene's stomach dropped.
"So I was meant for him?"
"No," Ronan snapped. "You were meant for whoever earned you. That was the one part of the prophecy no one could control."
A beat passed. Then—
Caelan cleared his throat. "This is getting emotional, but if we don't open this door soon, whatever's crawling out behind us will do it for us."
Selene looked at Ronan. He nodded once, then pressed his hand against the crescent seal.
Selene did the same.
At the exact moment, their palms touched the stone, the runes flared—bright silver and blood-red—and the door groaned, ancient locks snapping one by one.
With a crack of thunder, the Heartchamber opened.
Inside was a room unlike any Selene had ever seen.
The walls were made of mirrorstone—reflective, endless, filled with faces that weren't quite their own. She saw flickers of herself… but not just one version. Dozens. Her laughing. Crying. Dying.
"Is this—"
"A record of your bloodline," Caelan muttered. "Every version. Every life."
Ronan pointed toward the center.
A pedestal stood there.
On it—two blades. One silver. One obsidian.
Selene's pendant pulsed wildly now.
"These were forged from the twins' magic," Ronan said. "One to protect. One to destroy."
Caelan whistled. "So… which one do we take?"
Selene didn't move. Her eyes locked on the mirror behind the pedestal.
There—reflected in the glass—stood Lucien.
Smiling.
Choose carefully, little wolf, his voice echoed in her mind.
Only one blade will let you survive the war. The other… will make you remember everything.
Selene's breath caught.
Ronan's hand brushed her shoulder. "What do you see?"
"Nothing," she lied.
But her hand moved.
Toward the black blade.