Snow drifted like pale ash over the field of ruin. It gathered on fallen banners and broken spears, softening the edges of death until everything looked almost peaceful.

Elias Thorn moved through the silence like a shadow that had learned to breathe. The moonlight caught in his hair—dark chestnut with faint copper strands that glimmered when he turned his head. His jaw was strong, the lines of his face sharp but balanced by eyes the color of storm clouds after rain: gray with hints of amber that caught fire when his wolf stirred beneath his skin. The scar along his cheekbone didn’t mar his face; it only made him look more real, more dangerous.

He was the sort of handsome that unsettled people—too controlled, too still, as if he might break into violence or tenderness without warning.

Behind him, the patrol waited. They trusted him to read the night, and tonight the night felt wrong.

The moon above them hung low and red-rimmed, hollow as a wound in the sky. Even his wolf shifted uneasily, claws dragging against his consciousness.

A faint scent cut through the cold air—wild jasmine and woodsmoke, soft but alive. It didn’t belong to death or to any pack he knew. It felt like a secret whispered directly into his pulse.

Elias followed it.

Beyond a broken stone wall, she appeared.

For an instant he thought she was a ghost, a spirit called up by the strange moonlight. Then her breath fogged the air and he knew she was flesh and blood—and impossibly beautiful.

She stood ankle-deep in snow, slender yet unyielding, her body wrapped in a torn dark cloak that fluttered around her like wings. Her hair spilled loose past her waist, silver shot with faint gold, catching the red light of the moon until it looked almost liquid. Her skin, pale with a faint warmth beneath, glowed against the ruin behind her. And her eyes—violet laced with icy blue—met his with a defiance so fierce it sent a tremor through his chest.

Every instinct in him sharpened.

Mate.

The word wasn’t spoken. It struck through him like thunder beneath the skin. His wolf went silent, utterly still, waiting for his next breath.

She raised a dagger of carved bone, the moon reflecting off its edge. “Stay back.” Her voice carried a subtle lilt—low, melodic, too calm for someone facing death.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Elias said quietly, though his hand hovered near his blade.

“You should be.” Her mouth curved—not quite a smile, more the ghost of one. “The prophecy’s begun.”

His heart kicked once, hard. “What prophecy?”

She drew a small parchment from her cloak and tossed it into the snow between them. The ink had run, but one line gleamed darkly beneath the moonlight:

When the Hollow Moon bleeds, the Beta’s heart will be the first to fall.

Elias stared. The air thickened, every sound swallowed by snow. The words might as well have been carved into his bones.

Her gaze flicked to the gash on his arm—a cut he hadn’t even noticed until her eyes found it. Blood seeped slowly through the torn fabric.

“You’re already bleeding,” she murmured.

He looked down, then back up—but she had stepped closer without sound. For a heartbeat they were only a few paces apart, her scent enveloping him, wild and bright against the iron tang of battle.

“It’s begun,” she said softly.

A shout broke the spell.

“Beta! Movement to the east!”

Elias’s head turned toward the voice. When he looked back, the space before him was empty—only the parchment remained, half-buried in snow.

Her scent lingered in the air—jasmine, smoke, and something untamed that no language could name.

He didn’t chase her. He couldn’t. The prophecy’s words burned behind his eyes, the hollow moon bleeding red above him.

For the first time in his life, Elias Thorn—warrior, Beta, loyal son of Silverfang—felt the edges of fear. Not of death. Of destiny.

And of the woman whose beauty now haunted his every breath.