They ran until the ruins fell away behind them and the Shattered Reach swallowed their tracks.
The land here was wrong in a way that set Rhen's teeth on edge. Stone folded into sand without warning. Pools of seawater steamed where moonlight touched them. The wind carried too many scents at once—salt, iron, ash—and underneath it all, the sharp, unmistakable tang of magic pulled thin and stretched too far.
Rhen skidded to a stop atop a broken ridge, breath tearing from his chest. His wolf strained forward, eager, furious. He lifted his head and listened.
Howls answered from three directions.
"Moonbound," he muttered. "At least two packs."
Nymera's grip tightened on his hand. Her skin glowed faintly, the new patterns along her arms flickering like tideflame beneath glass. "And the sea," she said. "It's rising behind us."
Rhen glanced back. The water was moving inland in slow, deliberate sheets, not the wild rush of a storm but the measured advance of something that knew exactly where it was going. He felt it like pressure in his bones.
"They've decided," he said grimly. "No more shadows."
They moved again—down into a ravine where black rock arched overhead like ribs. The sigils on their bodies pulsed together, a quiet drumbeat. Rhen felt Nymera through it now—not just her fear, but her focus. Her resolve. The Voice of the Tides was no longer whispering. It was listening.
The first arrow came without warning.
Rhen turned just as it sliced past his shoulder and shattered against the stone. He snarled, the sound tearing free of him, and shoved Nymera behind a slab of rock.
"Hunters," he said. "Human."
"They followed us?" Nymera's eyes widened.
"Or they were waiting."
A second arrow struck lower, humming with a charm that made Rhen's mark burn. He ripped it free, teeth bared, and the wolf surged closer to the surface.
From the ridge above, voices shouted—orders barked with fear laced through them.
"Hold the line!"
"Do not let them merge!"
Rhen laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Too late."
He leapt.
The world narrowed to motion and sound. Stone underfoot, the snap of sinew, the rush of air. He hit the ridge like a storm breaking. The first man went down hard, weapon skittering away. Rhen didn't kill him—didn't need to. He moved with brutal efficiency, knocking arrows aside, disarming, breaking momentum.
A net flew—salt-woven, etched with runes meant to bind shifters. It wrapped his torso and burned.
Rhen roared, the sound echoing through the ravine, and felt Nymera's power answer.
The water in the air condensed—beads forming, then ribbons—wrapping the net, soaking it, pulling the salt's sting apart. The runes flickered and died.
Nymera stepped from cover, eyes blazing. She lifted her hands and commanded.
The ravine answered.
Water surged up from the stone itself, a tide tearing through the hunters' formation, sweeping weapons away and pinning men to rock without crushing them. She held it there, breath shaking.
"Leave," she said, voice ringing with authority that bent the air. "Now."
Most ran.
One did not.
A man in dark mail stepped forward, helm bearing the Moonbound crest. His eyes were silvered—wolf-touched, but wrong. Too still. Too obedient.
"Rhen of the Broken Line," he said calmly. "Nymera of the Sapphire Court. By order of the Elders and the Council, you are to be separated and delivered."
Rhen felt the old anger rise. "Delivered to who?"
The man smiled thinly. "To balance."
Nymera moved to Rhen's side. "You don't know what balance is."
The man's gaze flicked to her glowing marks. "I know exactly what you are."
He lunged.
Rhen met him head-on. Steel rang. The man moved with trained precision, anticipating Rhen's strikes, turning his strength against him. For a heartbeat, Rhen wondered how—
—then he felt it. The man's blood thrummed with moon-magic not his own. Borrowed. Leashed.
"Puppet," Rhen snarled.
The man's smile widened. "Better a puppet than a catastrophe."
Nymera raised her voice—not in song, but in truth. The sound cracked through the air, striking the sigils on the man's skin. He screamed, clutching his head as the borrowed magic rebelled.
Rhen took the opening, disarming him and sending him crashing to the stone. He stood over the man, chest heaving, claws out.
"Go," Rhen said. "And tell your Elders this: we will not be their lie."
The man staggered away, terror finally breaking through his calm.
Silence fell.
For a breath, the Reach held still.
Then the sea roared.
A wall of water surged into the ravine, towering and deliberate. Shapes moved within it—guards of the Deep, their armor glinting, tridents raised.
Nymera's face went pale. "My father sent them."
Rhen squeezed her hand. "Can you stop them?"
She shook her head. "Not without drowning everyone."
Rhen scanned the ravine. Ahead—an archway half-buried in stone, carved with symbols older than the Vault. A passage sloped downward, away from the water.
"There," he said. "We make a stand where the sea can't reach."
They ran.
The passage swallowed them into darkness. The roar of water dulled, then faded. The air grew warm, humming with a different kind of power.
They emerged into a cavern lit by veins of moonstone. At its center stood a ring of pillars, cracked but standing, etched with the same braided symbols as their sigils.
Nymera stared. "This is a Confluence Circle."
Rhen frowned. "A what?"
"A place where land-magic and sea-magic were meant to speak," she said softly. "Not fight."
The sigils flared.
Rhen felt the bond surge—painful, exhilarating. The wolf and the man aligned, not merging, but standing shoulder to shoulder within him. He looked at Nymera and saw not just the princess, but the storm she carried—and the calm beneath it.
Footsteps echoed at the cavern's edge.
A figure stepped into the light—tall, cloaked, face hidden by a mask of pale coral.
"My children," a voice said, deep and measured. "You have done enough damage."
Nymera's breath hitched. "Father."
King Tidalus removed his mask. His eyes were tired, older than Rhen expected, heavy with a grief that had no outlet.
"I begged the Council to wait," Tidalus said. "They would not. And now the Moonbound hunt you like beasts."
Rhen's jaw tightened. "And you came to finish it."
Tidalus shook his head once. "I came to make an offer."
Nymera stiffened. "What kind?"
"Stand within the Circle," Tidalus said. "Both of you. Let the Confluence bind your power. I will argue that containment is mercy."
Rhen felt the Circle hum. He felt what it wanted: order. Control.
"And if we refuse?" Rhen asked.
Tidalus met his gaze. "Then the Councils will declare war."
Nymera looked between them. "Containment will kill us."
"Slowly," Tidalus said. "Safely."
Rhen laughed, low and bitter. "There's nothing safe about a cage."
Nymera stepped forward, eyes shining with tears she refused to shed. "Father, listen to me. The past was built on a lie. We saw it."
Tidalus faltered. For a heartbeat, hope flickered.
Then the cavern shook as a new sound rolled through the stone—howls, closer now, and the grinding pull of the tide returning.
Tidalus closed his eyes. "You have one choice," he said softly. "Stand in the Circle. Or I cannot stop what comes next."
Rhen took Nymera's hand. The sigils burned—not with pain, but with promise.
"We choose each other," Rhen said.
Nymera nodded. "And we choose the truth."
The Circle cracked.
Light surged—not outward, but inward—into them. Rhen felt something ancient unlock fully this time, not a weapon, but a bridge. Nymera cried out as the tidefire flared bright, then steadied, obedient to her will.
Tidalus staggered back, awe and fear warring on his face.
Outside the cavern, the hunt arrived.
Inside, two forces stood ready—not to end the world, but to change it.