Page 1 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

PROLOGUE

The blood moon rises over the Cascade Mountains, staining the peaks and valleys with its crimson light. It hangs low in the sky, immense and unyielding, its glow casting long shadows that twist and writhe as though alive. The air crackles with unseen energy, pressing down on the ancient forest. Every leaf, every branch, seems to hold its breath, waiting for something to unfold.

Deep within this untouched wilderness, a lone figure emerges. The seer moves with purpose, each step a deliberate echo of centuries of tradition. Draped in furs and weathered robes, her form is shrouded by the mist that clings to the ground like a jealous lover. She is neither young nor old, her features blurred by the agelessness of those who walk between the worlds of man and beast.

The grove appears before her, a place where no living being lingers long. The trees here are impossibly ancient, their gnarled trunks reaching skyward like skeletal hands clawing at the heavens. Their roots, thick and serpentine, rise above the earth, coiling in knots that speak of secrets too old to name. The air is different here—still and dense, as though it resists intrusion.

At the grove's heart lies a circle of stones, each one taller than a man and worn smooth by time. Their surfaces etched with runes, their lines glowing faintly with a soft, pulsating light that seems to sync with the heartbeat of the forest itself. The runes are a language forgotten by most, yet alive here, their energy palpable, humming just beneath the skin.

The seer steps forward, entering the circle. The silence deepens, pressing in on all sides, an unnatural void that swallows even the sound of her breath. The runes respond to her presence, flaring brighter, their glow casting eerie patterns onto the surrounding trees. The light reveals fleeting shapes—wolves frozen mid-howl, shadows that ripple like water, and faint impressions of something watching from just beyond sight.

The seer kneels in the center, her hands hovering around the largest of the stones. It thrums with a low, steady pulse, a heartbeat in the earth. She closes her eyes and exhales, her breath forming a visible mist in the chill of the grove.

“Spirits of the first pack,” she intones, her voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of ritual and reverence. It cuts through the silence like a blade, rippling outward into the unseen. “I come before you under the blood moon. Show me what is hidden. Speak to me of what must be known.”

The ground trembles faintly, the stones vibrating in response. The runes blaze brighter, their glow now tinged with red. The air grows colder, sharper, and the seer’s breath quickens as the grove awakens. The energy intensifies, wrapping around her like invisible tendrils, pulling her deeper into the communion with the ancient spirits.

The silence breaks. A low, resonant howl rises from the stones—not of any living wolf, but a sound older and primal, echoing with the gravitas of countless generations. The seer’s eyes remain closed, but her body stiffens as the visions begin.

The grove dissolves into shadows and light, the physical world peeling away like old bark. In its place, the spirits’ realm unfolds—a vast, endless forest cloaked in twilight, where trees twist in impossible shapes, and the sky shifts between blood red and black. The seer’s voice trembles as she speaks, repeating the ritual words that have been passed down through countless generations.

“Show me,” she whispers again. “Show me what lies ahead.”

The light shifts, and the grove returns—only now, it is transformed. The seer’s eyes snap open, and she sees what the spirits reveal. Wolves run through the mountains, their howls echoing in a harmony that is beautiful yet haunting. But their numbers dwindle, their howls growing faint. Offspring are born weaker, their fragile bodies unable to thrive. The rivers dry, the forests wither, and a choking gray haze settles over the land.

The blood moon above the vision grows darker, its edges blurring as a vast shadow creeps across it. The wolves scatter, their harmony broken, replaced by discord and betrayal. Figures move within the pack, their fangs bared not at enemies but at each other. The seer flinches as she sees claws tear into fur, blood spilling onto the sacred earth.

The shadow looms larger, a figure emerging within it—indistinct and formless but radiating malice. Its tendrils stretch outward, consuming everything in its path.

The seer trembles, her voice barely audible. “What… what can be done?”

The vision shifts again. The shadow retreats slightly, beaten back by a faint light. Two figures stand together at the edge of a cliff, silhouetted against the blood moon. One is tall, its presence commanding, its form shifting between human and wolf as though it embodies both worlds. The other is smaller, its form steady, its light radiating outward like a beacon. The pairstands united, their hands clasped, their connection blazing like wildfire.

The vision holds, the grove pulsating with the energy of the prophecy. The voice of the spirits speaks again, layered and deep, vibrating through the seer’s very bones. “Born of two worlds, they shall restore the bond and bring balance. But beware...”

The light fractures, the figures splitting apart. The shadow surges forward again, more immense and terrifying than before. It engulfs the grove, consuming the light and leaving nothing but void.

The voice lowers, heavy with warning. “Betrayal will come from within. Blood will stain the path. And the enemy… the enemy is already rising.”

The seer lifts her head, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains visible through the trees. The blood moon still hangs above, a cruel reminder of the storm that is coming. She rises on unsteady legs, the voice a whisper that is barely carried on the chill wind.

“The fated pair must rise. Or we are already lost.”

The red orb of the night hangs heavy in the sky, casting its crimson glow over the ancient forest. The Cascade Mountains, normally teeming with life, seem unnaturally still. The forest holds its breath as though it, too, senses the weight of what is to come. Shadows stretch and twist across the uneven terrain, their shapes shifting with the faint flicker of the moonlight.

The voice lowers, heavy with foreboding. “But beware. What is forged in destiny can be broken by choice. The path is fraught with betrayal, with blood, with sacrifice. The enemy lies not only in the shadows but in the hearts of those who stand beside them.”

The vision shatters. The seer collapses to the stones, her breath ragged as the grove returns. The runes fade, their glowretreating into the earth. The silence returns, more oppressive than ever, as though the grove mourns for what has been revealed.

The seer rises slowly, her body heavy with the burden of knowledge. She turns her gaze toward the distant mountains, where the fated pair will one day rise. The storm is coming, and the wolves of the Cascade Mountains are unprepared.

Her voice is barely more than a whisper as she leaves the grove, her words carried away on the chill wind.

“May the spirits be merciful.”

CHAPTER 1

RYDER

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