The heavy ice doors of the Temple of the Weeping Moon didn't just close; they sealed with a sound that signaled the end of the world. As the boom echoed through the frozen chamber, Elara felt the immediate severance of her connection to Lyraki. For the first time since the night in the stone cabin, the golden thread of the mate bond went cold.
She was alone in the dark.
Then, the mirrors began to glow. They weren't made of silvered glass, but of "Ever-Ice," a substance that reflected the soul rather than the face. As Elara stepped forward, her violet aura flickered weakly against the overwhelming pressure of the temple's ancient grief.
"So, the little hybrid thinks she can carry the weight of the world," a voice hissed.
Elara spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Standing there was not a monster, but herself. Or rather, a version of herself that looked exactly as she had the night the Redwood Pack burned. This "Shadow-Elara" was covered in soot, her eyes wide with a pathetic, whimpering terror.
"You aren't real," Elara whispered, though her hands began to shake.
"I am the only part of you that is honest," the shadow replied, stepping out of a mirror. "You think Lyraki loves you? Look at him."
The mirror to her left shimmered. It showed a vision of the future—or perhaps a suppressed fear. She saw Lyraki sitting on the Obsidian Throne, older and colder. Beside him sat a beautiful, powerful Lycan woman with golden fur and fierce, predatory eyes. Elara saw herself in the corner of the room, still human-passing, still fragile, watching them with a breaking heart.
"You are a temporary fix for his madness," the voices of the Hall whispered in unison. "Once the stone is mended, his blood will crave a real mate. A wolf. Not a 'Whisperer' who reminds him of his shame."
"That's a lie," Elara choked out, but the "Whisper" in her mind began to turn against her. Without Lyraki's mental shield, her power was backfiring. She wasn't just hearing the temple's sorrow; she was projecting her own insecurities back at herself.
She moved deeper into the Hall, passing mirrors that showed her mother's face. "You let me die, Elara," the reflection of her mother wept. "You were the Seer. You should have seen the betrayal coming. You stayed in your bed while I fled into the night."
"I was a child!" Elara screamed, clutching her head.
"A child who carries the blood of gods is never just a child," the Hall roared back.
The pressure was physical now. The Shard of Sorrow, sitting on its pedestal of frozen tears, began to pulse. With every pulse, a new memory was dragged from the depths of Elara's mind. She saw the faces of the guards she had "projected" her pain into at the Isles. She saw their terrified eyes as their minds shattered.
"You are becoming the monster your father wanted," the Shadow-Elara whispered, crawling toward her on the ice floor. "You enjoy the power, don't you? You enjoyed watching those men claw at their eyes. You're not a savior. You're a Void-Queen in training."
Elara fell to her knees, the ice burning her skin. The violet light around her was turning gray, choked by the sheer weight of her regret. She felt the urge to just lay down and let the ice consume her. It would be so easy. No more voices. No more prophecy. No more fear of losing Lyraki.
But then, she felt a faint, rhythmic thumping. It wasn't a sound; it was a sensation. It was coming from the Mark on her neck.
Even though the bond was suppressed by the temple's magic, the physical mark was a permanent scar. It was a piece of Lyraki that the ice couldn't touch. She remembered his words: "My wolf is standing guard at the door of your mind."
"He isn't guarding me because I'm a tool," Elara whispered into the freezing dark. "He's guarding me because I'm his peace."
She forced herself to look at the Shadow-Elara. "You're right. I am afraid. I am afraid of losing him. I am afraid of the power I carry. And I am devastated that I couldn't save my mother."
As she spoke the truths out loud, the gray fog around her began to thin.
"But regret isn't a cage," Elara said, her voice growing stronger. "It's a teacher. I hear the sorrow of the world, and I choose to feel it, not be drowned by it."
She stood up, her violet eyes flashing with a light that was no longer just a flicker, but a bonfire. She walked toward the Shadow-Elara and didn't strike it. She reached out and pulled the shadow into a hug.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
The shadow shattered into a thousand shards of light. The mirrors in the hall cracked, their surfaces turning into clear, harmless glass. The Hall of Regret fell silent.
Elara walked to the pedestal and picked up the Shard of Sorrow. It didn't burn her. It felt cool and heavy, like a smooth stone from a river. She had conquered her inner demons, not by destroying them, but by accepting them.
While Elara was claiming her victory in the silence of the temple, a storm of a different kind was brewing outside.
Lyraki was pacing the snow, his claws tearing deep grooves into the permafrost. His wolf was screaming at him to tear the ice doors down, but he knew that if he interfered, the temple would collapse on Elara.
"Sire!" Kael shouted, pointing toward the southern horizon.
A line of white light appeared on the edge of the tundra. At first, it looked like a mirage, but as it drew closer, the sound of silver bells chiming echoed through the wind.
Thirty women, dressed in robes of shimmering silver and white silk that seemed entirely too thin for the sub-zero temperatures, rode toward the camp on massive stags with antlers of crystal. They didn't move like soldiers; they moved like a force of nature.
"The Eastern Seers," Lyraki hissed, his obsidian blade singing as he drew it. "They're a thousand miles from their territory."
The leader of the coven, a woman named Selene, dismounted her stag with a grace that made the Lycan warriors look like clumsy beasts. Her hair was a startling, metallic silver, and her eyes were a piercing, cold violet a direct match to Elara's.
"King Lyraki," Selene said, her voice carrying over the gale without her having to shout. "You have something that belongs to us."
"I have a mate who is currently doing the work of the gods," Lyraki replied, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You are not welcome here, Witch."
"We do not require a welcome from a lapdog of the moon," Selene mocked, her fingers twitching, sending sparks of silver lightning into the snow. "The girl in that temple is the High Seer's daughter. She is the last of the Star-Blood line. We have felt her awakening, and we will not allow her to be soiled by the touch of a Lycan."
"Soiled?" Lyraki took a step forward, the ground shaking beneath his boots. "I have bled for her. I have fought the Void for her. Where were you when her father was breeding her for slaughter? Where were the 'High Seers' when she was running for her life in the ash?"
Selene's face didn't change, but the air around her grew ten degrees colder. "We do not interfere in the squabbles of packs. But she is no longer a child. She is a weapon, and she belongs to the Coven. If you do not hand her over, we will freeze the blood in your veins before you can blink."
The Lycan warriors formed a wall behind Lyraki, their eyes turning red as they prepared to shift. The Witches raised their hands, silver light pooling in their palms.
The standoff was a hair's breadth away from a massacre. The Frost-Walkers, the guardians of the temple, watched from the ridges, their silver eyes indifferent to the conflict. To them, it didn't matter who won, as long as the sorrow was fed.
"I will give you one chance to turn your stags around," Lyraki said, his body beginning to smoke as the "God-form" flickered beneath his skin. "If you touch her, I will not just kill you. I will erase the Eastern Coven from the history books."
"Bold words for a dying race," Selene countered.
Just as she raised her hand to strike, the Temple of the Weeping Moon let out a sound like a thunderclap. The ice doors didn't just open; they disintegrated into mist.
Elara stepped out. She wasn't the trembling girl who had entered. She was glowing with a light so bright it made the Witches' silver lightning look like a candle flame. In her hand, she held the white Shard of Sorrow.
"The King doesn't need to erase you," Elara said, her voice echoing with a power that made the white stags bow their heads in submission. "Because I'm not going anywhere."