Lucien’s POV

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    The night air was sharp, brimming with the scent of pine and blood. My wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin as I led the small strike force through the bordends. The earth was damp with an earlier rain, the sky heavy with clouds that threatened a storm. Perfect. The storm was mine to call, mine to wield.

    This was no campaign of conquest. Not yet. Tonight was reconnaissance. A test of the West’s defenses, a taste of their mettle before we bared our fangs fully.

    We moved in silence, shadows weaving through the trees. Every step brought us closer to the Western border, closer to the wolves who had been carving eastward with ruthless precision. Closer to the rumors of their weapon–the white wolf.

    A legend. A ghost. Some swore she was touched by the Moon Goddess herself. Others whispered she was nothing but smoke, a lie to make cowards tremble.

    But when the first howl ripped through the night, I knew at once that the legend was real.

    The trees around us erupted with motion, shadows breaking free of shadows. Wolves poured in–faster, sharper, more disciplined than I had expected. Steel shed, ws tore bark, the forest itself seeming to shudder beneath the collision. My men roared, meeting the assault head–on.

    And then I saw her.

    At first, only her eyes. Piercing, unrelenting, visible even through the wolf–head mask that obscured her face. They caught the torchlight like twin des. She moved with lethal precision, every strike calcted to kill, every step a dancer’s bnce on the edge of death.

    My wolf jolted inside me, recognition ring like lightning across a storm sky. Her movements- something about the tilt of her shoulders, the ferocity of her strikes–it was achingly familiar. My breath hitched before I forced myself back into focus.

    No. There was no time for ghosts.

    I drew my de, meeting the first of her soldiers. They were skilled–trained in her image, perhaps—but my wolf was older, darker, carved by years of blood and the weight of Stormridge. Steel rang against steel, ws against ws. The air thickened with snarls, shouts, the stink of sweat and iron.

    Through it all, I kept her in sight. The white wolf of the West. Masked, anonymous, but impossible to ignore. She cut through the fray like a storm given flesh, her wolf aura crackling in the air, demanding all attention.

    Our eyes locked across the chaos, just for a heartbeat.

    And in that heartbeat, something inside me fractured.

    I knew her. Not her mask, not her title, but the way her body moved as though the battlefield was her birthright. The way her wolf’s presence pushed against mine, fierce and unyielding, like two storms colliding. Memory surged in jagged fragmentsughter in the dark, the glint of golden eyes, the brush of a hand against mine. And then nothing. The images slipped away, too clusive to grasp.

    11:38 pm PP

    b+20 /bFree Coins

    A snarl ripped from my throat as I threw off another attacker, de sliding through fur and flesh. I pushed forward, cutting a path toward her.

    She met me in kind. Our sh was not spoken, not nned, but inevitable.

    Steel met steel, ws met ws. Her strength was staggering–she pressed me back with a ferocity I had not felt in years. Every strike was a death sentence, every feint a predator’s game. My wolf strained against my skin, eager to break free, to meet her wolf fang for fang.

    And yet beneath the violence, that maddening familiarity gnawed at me. I knew this warrior. I knew her the way I knew my own scars.

    But how?

    The battle surged around us, tearing us apart before I could demand the answer. Her soldiers closed in, her wolf aura pushing me back,manding me to retreat. Not with words–no, she never spoke a word -but with sheer, merciless presence.

    My men regrouped, bleeding but alive. This was meant to be a test, not a ughter. I clenched my jaw, forcing my wolf to heel as I raised my hand in signal. “Fall back,” Imanded, my voice carrying over the sh.

    We withdrew, step by step, the night swallowing us as the Western wolves howled their victory.

    But I did not feel defeated.

    I felt haunted.

    Long after the sounds of battle faded, long after the forest quieted once more, I could still see her eyes through that mask, sharp and unrelenting. I could still feel the weight of her strikes reverberating through my bones.

    And beneath it all—the unshakable certainty that I had fought her before. Not here. Not now. Long ago, in a life torn from me by blood and betrayal.

    Aria. That was the name whispered by reports. The white wolf of the West.

    But my heart, traitorous and wild, whispered another name.

    Riley.

    But no–it could not be. Riley was dead. I had seen the smoke rising from her funeral pyre, watched as she was given back to the Moon herself. And Aria’s scent… it bore no trace of Riley. They could not be the same. This was nothing but my grief weaving illusions, my longing ying cruel tricks on me.

    If she truly were Riley, why would she note to me? Why would she strike at me with such merciless precision, showing not a shred of recognition? My Riley would never raise her de against me so coldly.

    No. It was madness. A ghost conjured by memory.

    I exhaled, shaking my head, a bitterugh curling in my throat. I could not see every white wolf and name her Riley. I would drown myself in phantoms if I did.

    “It’s a hallucination,” I muttered, self–mockery cutting sharper than any de.

    11:38 pm P P

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    Still… when I closed my eyes, it was her eyes–those sharp, burning eyes–that followed me into the dark.

    11:38 pm bP /b