Caelan's POV
The rogue's head separated from its body before it even knew Caelan was there.
Blood sprayed across the forest floor as Caelan moved to the next target, his wolf form a blur of silver fur and lethal grace. Five rogues had been terrorizing the neutral zone for weeks—killing travelers, attacking smaller packs, leaving bodies scattered like trash.
Tonight, they died.
Caelan's jaws closed around the second rogue's throat, ending its miserable existence. The remaining three scattered, but they wouldn't get far. His warriors surrounded the forest, cutting off every escape route.
Then the sky exploded with silver light.
Caelan shifted back to human form instantly, his warrior instincts screaming danger. That light wasn't normal. Wasn't natural. It felt ancient and powerful and completely wrong for this part of the territory.
He ran toward the source, leaving his prey behind. His Beta Marcus appeared beside him, also shifted back, his face tight with concern.
"What is that?" Marcus gasped.
"I don't know. But it's coming from where we cornered that woman earlier—the one the rogues were chasing."
They'd spotted her twenty minutes ago: a small blonde woman stumbling through the trees, clearly injured and desperate. The rogues had surrounded her before Caelan could reach her. He'd been fighting his way through to save her when the light erupted.
Caelan burst into a clearing and stopped dead.
The woman floated three feet off the ground, her body arched backward in obvious agony. Silver light poured from her skin like liquid starlight. Her honey-blonde hair whipped around her face, and her eyes—her eyes blazed pure silver, brighter than the full moon.
The three remaining rogues cowered at the edge of the clearing, whimpering like terrified puppies.
"Impossible," Marcus breathed beside him. "That's—that can't be—"
"A Silvermoon awakening." Caelan's heart pounded. He'd studied the ancient texts his entire life, searching for the lost bloodline. Every Alpha King for three hundred years had searched. And here she was, transforming right in front of him.
The woman screamed, and the sound shattered trees. Silver power exploded outward in a wave that sent the rogues flying. They hit the ground and scrambled away, running for their lives from something that terrified them more than death.
Caelan should have chased them. Should have finished his hunt.
But he couldn't look away from her.
The light began to fade. The woman's body slowly lowered back to earth, her silver hair—it had turned silver, streaked through the blonde like moonlight—settling around her shoulders. Her skin glowed faintly, and when Caelan's wolf sight focused, he saw it.
The mark on her left shoulder blade, revealed by her torn shirt.
The Silvermoon crest. Three moons intertwined with a wolf, the symbol that hadn't been seen in centuries.
"By the Moon Goddess," Caelan whispered.
The woman's legs buckled. He was moving before conscious thought, catching her before she hit the ground. She was tiny in his arms, delicate and clearly malnourished. But power hummed beneath her skin like electricity.
Up close, he could see the damage. Claw marks across her ribs from the rogue attack. Bruises on her arms in the distinct shape of handprints—someone had grabbed her, hurt her. Dark circles under her eyes suggesting months of poor sleep. And something else, something that made his wolf snarl with protective fury.
The scent of another male all over her. A mate bond, but broken. Rejected.
"Who would reject a Silvermoon?" Marcus moved closer, his voice awed. "Who would be that stupid?"
"Someone who didn't know what she was." Caelan studied her face. She was beautiful despite the exhaustion and pain—soft features, full lips, the kind of gentle beauty that made people underestimate her. "I'd bet everything she didn't know either. The power was dormant, suppressed somehow."
"What woke it up?"
"Nearly dying, probably. The Silvermoon bloodline awakens during extreme trauma." Caelan's jaw clenched. "She was attacked, rejected, probably cast out of her pack. The violence triggered the transformation."
He gently pushed the torn fabric of her shirt aside to examine the mark more closely. It was fresh, the silver ink still glowing faintly. The moment of awakening had literally branded her with her heritage.
"This changes everything," Marcus said quietly. "If she's really a Silvermoon—"
"She is. I can feel it." Caelan's wolf recognized her on an instinctual level. Not as a mate—there was no bond between them. But as something precious. Something his wolf had been searching for without knowing why.
The woman stirred in his arms. Caelan held very still, watching her face. Her eyelids fluttered. Those silver eyes opened slowly, unfocused and confused.
She looked up at him, and Caelan felt the weight of ancient power in that gaze. This wasn't just any wolf. This was royalty. This was the bloodline that created the mate bond itself, that held the power to build or destroy the foundation of their entire world.
"Who am I?" she whispered, her voice broken and lost.
The question shattered something in Caelan's chest. She didn't know. Didn't understand what she'd become. The awakening had been so violent, so sudden, that it had torn away her sense of self.
He opened his mouth to answer, to explain everything—that she was the lost Silvermoon heir, that she held more power than any Alpha alive, that she was the most important wolf in the world.
But before he could speak, her silver eyes rolled back.
She went completely limp in his arms.
And the mark on her shoulder began to burn brighter.
"Caelan!" Marcus pointed at the Silvermoon crest. "It's changing!"
Caelan watched in shock as new symbols appeared around the three moons, spiraling outward in ancient script he'd only seen in the oldest texts. Words formed in a language that predated modern wolves, glowing with silver fire.
Marcus leaned closer, translating slowly. "Bloodline... awakened. Power... unbound. Rightful heir... to the throne of—"
He stopped. His face went white.
"To the throne of what?" Caelan demanded.
Marcus met his eyes, and Caelan saw genuine fear there for the first time in twenty years of friendship.
"Not just the Silvermoon throne," Marcus whispered. "According to this... she's not just any heir. She's the First Daughter. The direct descendant of the Moon Goddess herself." He swallowed hard. "Caelan, you're not holding a lost heir. You're holding the wolf who's prophesied to either save our world or burn it to ashes. And according to this mark..."
He pointed to a final symbol burning into her skin—a crescent moon split in half.
"She's already made her choice. The prophecy has begun."