The black flames curled around the iron cauldron. They didn’t give off heat. They moved like snakes. Like skulls. Like hands reaching for something that wasn’t there. The air was thick. Heavy. It stank of burned herbs, rotting flesh, and something worse. Something that should not be. The stone walls pulsed. Faint veins of old magic ran through them. They glowed. They throbbed.


    Elyon stood in the middle of it all. Scarlet robes pooled around her like fresh blood. Rings of carved bone covered her fingers. They once belonged to dead kings. Her hands moved slow. Careful. Precise. She picked up a small vial from a tray of obsidian. The glass was thin. Fragile. Inside, blackened moonlight swirled like a living shadow.


    She tilted it.


    The first drop fell into the cauldron.


    The whole chamber groaned. Like stone grinding on stone. Like something waking up after too long. The liquid inside the cauldron darkened. The light disappeared.


    Elyon smiled.


    She lifted the next ingredient. A jagged fang, yellowed with age, still slick with old blood. The last tooth of an Alpha. Ripped from its mouth in the moment of death. She held it between two fingers. She felt the weight. The power. The last bit of life it carried.


    Then she dropped it.


    The cauldron convulsed. The surface rippled. Sickly green veins spread for just a second before sinking back down. A hiss slithered through the air. A whisper. But no one spoke.


    Elyon picked up a dagger. The blade was curved. Sigils crawled across the metal. If you stared too long, they moved.


    She pressed the tip against her palm.


    She cut.


    A single drop of blood welled up. Thicker than mortal blood. Dark as the void between stars.


    It fell.


    The moment it touched the potion, the world shook.


    A pulse of power shot through the room. The torches flickered. The air shuddered. The walls stretched, like something inside was breathing. Runes carved into the stone lit up, one by one, like eyes opening in the dark.


    Then came the howl.


    It wasn’t a wolf. It wasn’t anything that belonged on this earth. It scraped against the mind like claws against bone. It filled every inch of the chamber. It crawled inside Elyon’s ribs.


    She only smiled.


    She lifted her hands. Her fingers moved like snakes. She wove the air. Her voice came softly, low. The words curled from her lips. A language older than time.


    The potion stirred beneath her breath. It didn’t just swirl. It twisted. Shifted. Writhed. Not smoke. Not liquid. Not shadow. Something else. Something that lived.


    The Poison of the Withered Moon was ready.


    It wouldn’t just kill the Great Mother Wolf. No. It would rot her from the inside out. It would strip her divinity. Tear away her strength. Unravel her.


    Elyon looked into the cauldron. The flames flickered in her red eyes.


    The wolves had ruled for too long.


    Soon, the earth would be cleansed of them.


    Soon, the moon would wither and die.


    Then a sound.


    A crack. A shift in the undergrowth. Something was there.


    Elyon felt the chill run through her blood. But she didn’t panic. Panic was for the weak.


    Her fingers slid into her robe. Found the small vial tucked inside. The Poison of the Withered Moon was still warm. The inky liquid swirled, restless, hungry. She pressed it to her chest. Then tucked it into a hidden pocket. Safe.


    She exhaled. Slow. Steady. Then turned toward the door.


    The light from the hearth flickered. It bathed her in a deep red glow. Her sharp features caught the light. She looked like a predator. Her skin was pale. Smooth. Unmarked by time. Her cheekbones were high. Her lips are full. The color of drowned roses. Her eyes burned like rubies. Her hair fell past her shoulders. Dark as a raven’s wing. A band of black silk held it back. The scent of herbs and blood clung to her. The scent of magic.


    She moved. Silent. Swift. Slipping from her hut like a shadow.


    The hut sat deep in the forest. A place untouched by time. The wood curled, twisted. Like it had grown from the bones of the earth. The roof sagged under moss and ivy. Bones and dried herbs hung from the eaves. They swayed, though no wind touched them. The black oak door groaned as she left it behind.


    The air shifted.


    It smelled like wet steel. Like ozone.


    Then came the hum.


    Low. Mechanical. A sound like something alive. Something waiting.


    The werewolves had come.


    They moved through the trees. Half-shadow. Half-metal. Heavy armor covered them. Black steel. Plated. Fast but brutal. Silver lined the edges. Glowing faintly. Warded against magic. Their helmets looked like snarling wolf skulls. Their breaths came through vox-filters. Deep. Guttural.


    Each one carried a lasgun. Long as a greatsword. Thick barrels. Crackling energy. The sigil of the Great Mother Wolf glowed on their chests. Faint. Alive.


    They were hunting her.


    Elyon’s breath sharpened.


    Then she ran.


    She weaved through the trees. Fast. Fluid. Her robes whipping behind her. The wolves moved fast. Too fast. But she had been running for a long time.


    She vaulted over a log. Landed. Twisted through the thicket. The pounding of boots followed. They were closing in.


    A snap of branches.


    A growl.


    Too close.


    Then—impact.


    Elyon hit the ground hard. A weight crashed down on her. Heavy. Snarling.


    Luna Nocturiana.


    Her armor was sleeker. Stronger. Silver engravings covered the plating. Her gauntlets had claws. Her visor slid back. Golden eyes burned into Elyon’s.


    Elyon bared her fangs.


    Nocturiana pinned her down. One hand clamped around her throat. The other swung a dagger. Silver. Aimed for the ribs.


    Elyon caught her wrist.


    They struggled.


    Almost evenly matched. Almost.


    Elyon moved first.


    A whisper. A flicker of violet mist.


    She vanished.


    Reappeared a few feet away. Solid. Ready.


    Luna snarled. Raised her gun.


    Elyon lifted a hand.


    The world exploded.


    A blast of raw magic tore through the forest. The trees burned. The ground scorched.


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    Nocturiana dodged. Just barely. She rolled. Fired.


    A red-hot beam split the air.


    Elyon didn’t flinch.


    She bent the space around her. Warped the air. The beam twisted. Missed.


    It slammed into the trees. Bark turned to embers.


    Elyon laughed.


    She lifted her hands. Her nails are black as midnight.


    The forest answered.


    Vines surged from the ground. Tipped with barbs. Moving like snakes. Shadows thickened. Solid. Writhing.


    Nocturiana slashed. Fired. Kept moving. But Elyon didn’t stop. Her fingers wove the air. A deadly symphony.


    The Earth rose.


    A massive root burst from the ground. Struck hard. Bone-cracking force.


    Nocturiana flew back. Hit a tree. The armor was dented.


    Elyon tilted her head. Her lips curled.


    "Still think you can hunt me, wolf?"


    Nocturiana spat blood. Growled.


    The fight was far from over.


    Elyon stood in the middle of the writhing shadows. Her fingers were raised. Her eyes burned like dying stars. Magic pulsed from her like a second heartbeat. The air around her twisted.


    Nocturiana pushed herself off the tree. The dent in her armor sealed shut with a faint hum. Her visor slid back into place. The snarling maw of a wolf’s skull covered her face again.


    She moved first.


    The ground cracked beneath her. She lunged. Her clawed gauntlet swung for Elyon’s throat like a falling guillotine.


    But Elyon was faster.


    She twisted to the side. Her form blurred. Nothing but a streak of black silk and silver hair. Nocturiana''s strike hit nothing. The force of it splintered a tree.


    Elyon appeared behind her.


    Her fingers shot forward. Razor-sharp claws lengthened like obsidian talons.


    They slashed across Nocturiana’s armor. The sound shrieked like nails on steel. Sparks flew.


    Nocturiana spun. Her elbow smashed into Elyon’s ribs.


    The hit was brutal. Like a warhammer to the chest. Elyon skidded back.


    But she didn’t fall.


    She hissed. Not in pain. In amusement.


    "You''re strong, wolf." Elyon straightened. "But strength alone won’t save you."


    Nocturiana raised her lasgun.


    Elyon’s fingers twitched.


    The shadows leapt.


    Dark tendrils snapped out. They grabbed the gun. Yanked it from Nocturiana’s grip before she could fire. It vanished into the void. Gone.


    Nocturiana didn’t stop.


    She charged. A silver blur.


    Elyon laughed.


    Then she disappeared.


    A flicker of movement. Then nothing.


    Nocturiana’s claws slashed through air.


    Then—a whisper at her ear.


    "Behind you."


    She turned too late.


    Elyon was already there.


    Her claws punched through the seams of Nocturiana’s armor. Sank deep.


    The wolf snarled. Black fire burst from Elyon’s fingertips. It burned through flesh and metal.


    Nocturiana tried to counter. Tried to grab Elyon. Throw her off. But the vampire moved like a shadow. She slipped through Nocturiana’s grasp like mist through fingers.


    The fight had changed.


    Nocturiana was on the defensive.


    Elyon was hunting her now.


    The vampire struck again and again. Her speed was unnatural. Her claws are like obsidian blades.


    Every move was a predator’s dance. Effortless. Precise.


    Nocturiana fought to keep up. Blocking. Dodging. Countering when she could. But Elyon was relentless.


    Then—a mistake.


    Nocturiana stepped back half a second too slow.


    Elyon capitalized.


    She blurred forward.


    Appeared right in front of Nocturiana.


    One devastating blow landed against the werewolf’s chest.


    Nocturiana crashed through three trees. Her armor cracked from the force.


    The ground trembled.


    Silence.


    Then footsteps. Slow. Measured. Mocking.


    Elyon walked forward. She brushed a silver strand from her face.


    Nocturiana tried to push herself up.


    Elyon lifted a hand.


    The air grew heavy.


    Nocturiana froze.


    A crushing force pinned her down. Like the weight of the night itself had turned against her.


    Elyon knelt beside her. Her red eyes glowed.


    "You fought well." She ran a single claw along Nocturiana’s dented breastplate.


    Nocturiana growled.


    Elyon smiled.


    "But this… was inevitable."


    She raised her hand. Dark fire curled around her fingers.


    Nocturiana struggled. But she was trapped.


    Elyon whispered the words that would end this.


    Then—


    Something stirred in the shadows.


    Elyon’s eyes flicked to the side.


    A presence.


    Something watching.


    Something waiting.


    And before the final word left her lips—


    The trees shook under the weight of approaching boots.


    A chorus of growls echoed through the forest. The rest of the werewolves had arrived.


    Their armor gleamed in the moonlight. Blackened steel. Silver etchings. Sigils carved deep into every plate.


    Their crimson visors pulsed like hunting eyes in the dark.


    They came armed.


    The first soldier knelt. He snapped open a launcher. The others did the same.


    A split second of silence.


    Then, the air exploded.


    Grenades whistled through the trees. Their casings spun as they arced toward Elyon.


    She raised a hand.


    Magic rushed to her fingertips. Instinct, not thought.


    But the moment the grenades detonated, she knew.


    Not smoke.


    A fine silver-gray mist rushed over her like a tidal wave.


    Elyon gasped.


    The air turned heavy.


    Her lungs burned.


    The scent was wrong. Like ash and ozone. Like something decayed yet alive.


    She coughed. She staggered.


    Her magic died.


    The fire in her veins snuffed out like a candle.


    The shadows recoiled. The void she had woven into reality collapsed.


    Her strength bled from her limbs.


    Her vision blurred.


    She fell to one knee. Gasping for breath.


    Laughter.


    Slow, deliberate footsteps crunched through the dead leaves.


    Nocturiana stood over her.


    She brushed dust from her armor.


    Her visor glowed red as she looked down at Elyon.


    "You feel it, don’t you?"


    Elyon snarled. Her fangs bared.


    Nocturiana crouched. She rested one arm on her knee.


    "It’s called Anti-Magic. A lost technology. Older than even your kind."


    Her voice was calm. Cold.


    "Recovered from the ruins of the Pre-Unification Era."


    Elyon clawed at the dirt.


    She tried to push herself up.


    Her muscles refused to move.


    Her magic was gone.


    Nocturiana chuckled.


    She stood.


    "It’s fascinating."


    She tilted her head.


    "How something so simple could strip a witch like you bare."


    She pressed a boot to Elyon’s chest.


    She pushed her down.


    "You’re powerless."


    Elyon hissed.


    Her eyes burned with defiance.


    Nocturiana only smiled.


    She lifted a hand.


    She signaled her soldiers.


    "Elyon of the Dark Moon."


    Her voice rang through the trees.


    "You are hereby under arrest."


    The werewolves moved in.


    Silver chains clattered.


    They pulled them from pouches.


    They fastened them around Elyon’s wrists.


    She thrashed.


    But her body was betraying her.


    The dust was sinking into her veins.


    Numbing her.


    Drowning her in silence.


    Her vision darkened.


    Her heartbeat slowed.


    The last thing she saw was Nocturiana’s gleaming fangs.


    The werewolf commander leaned in.


    She whispered.


    "Sleep tight, witch."


    Then—blackness.