Moonbound Vows by Easal Bayan

The scent of rosemary and jasmine still lingered in the ceremonial hall, masking the faint, metallic tang of blood. Candles burned low in silver holders along the long oak table, their flames swaying under the slow, oppressive weight of the air.

It should have been a night of history. A night when witches and wolves would lay down centuries of bloodshed, sign the truce, and drink to a future that would never know war again.

Instead, Renna—Draven Valtoor's Luna—was lying lifeless on the floor, her head cradled in his lap, lips parted, skin pale as winter frost.

"Kill every single witch you can find in here!" Draven's roar tore through the silence, raw enough to rattle the stained-glass windows. His grip on his sword was white-knuckled, the blade dripping with blood from a guard who hadn't moved fast enough to get out of his way.

The Witch Queen stepped forward, her gold-threaded gown whispering against the stone floor. She raised both hands, palms open, her voice shaking but carrying the weight of command. "Listen to me, Draven. We didn't kill your wife. She can be treated—"

"Treated?" His voice cracked into a snarl. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a wolf's howl. "She's dead, witch. And you expect me to believe your pretty lies?"

"She's alive!" The Queen's words rushed out, desperate now. Her hands trembled as she stepped closer, magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. "I swear to the Moon, she's alive. We would gain nothing from her death—"

Draven didn't let her finish. He stepped forward, swung his sword in a vicious arc, and buried it into the chest of the nearest witch guard. Blood splattered across the Queen's gown like crimson flowers blooming on silk.

"Draven!" Zephyra's voice cracked through the hall, sharp as breaking glass.

The princess of Velkaria rose from her seat at the far end of the table, slamming her palms down on the polished wood. The goblets on the table rattled, wine spilling like blood across the white tablecloth. Her gun was out in one smooth motion, her aim steady as granite as she leveled it at his head.

Around them, the ceremonial hall trembled with barely restrained chaos. Nightbane wolves shifted into their hulking forms, claws scraping against marble. The sound was like nails on stone—sharp, grating, promising violence. Velkaria's mages lifted their hands, magic sparking blue and gold at their fingertips, the air itself crackling with power.

"You dare draw a weapon in my court?" Draven's voice was a low growl, his eyes gleaming gold in the candlelight.

"You dare spill blood in my home?" Zephyra shot back, cocking the gun with a sharp click that cut through the tension.

Draven took a step closer, his boots crunching on shattered glass from a fallen wine goblet. "You have five seconds to drop that weapon, little witch, or I'll—"

"You'll what? Kill me? You do not have that power, Draven."

The words hung in the air like a challenge thrown down between them. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

A wolf's howl split the air outside, followed by another. Then the sharp, blood-curdling scream of a guard.

All at once, the room erupted.

Wolves lunged. Spells exploded like lightning, sending chairs and bodies flying. The scent of burned herbs mixed with the copper bite of fresh blood. Ancient tapestries caught fire, their threads unraveling into ash.

Zephyra fired once—just over Draven's shoulder—striking a wolf mid-shift. The creature dropped with a heavy thud. She ducked as a second wolf lunged at her, twisting to blast him back with a burst of kinetic magic that sent him crashing into the wall hard enough to crack stone.

Through the chaos, she caught sight of Draven again—kneeling over Renna's body, lifting her into his arms. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes... his eyes were filled with tears rolling endlessly down his face. The sight made something twist in her chest—not sympathy, but recognition of a grief so raw it cut through even her anger.

"Get her!" he roared, jerking his chin toward Zephyra.

Two Nightbane enforcers came for her at once, their eyes burning yellow in their partially shifted faces. Zephyra moved fast, firing twice, magic lacing the bullets. One wolf went down, the other staggered, but more were closing in. Her heart pounded against her ribs. She wasn't afraid—not of dying—but of what his wrath would cost her people.

"Stand down!" the Queen's voice rang out again, but it was swallowed by the battle. She tried to reach Zephyra, cutting through the fighting with graceful, deadly magic, but a massive wolf slammed into her, sending her sprawling across the blood-slicked floor.

Zephyra spun, firing at another wolf, but something hard and heavy slammed into the side of her head. Her vision exploded into white stars.

Strong hands grabbed her arms, yanking her gun away. She kicked, twisted, bit down hard enough to taste blood—but there were too many. Her magic flickered and died as exhaustion took hold.

Through the blur of pain, she heard Draven's voice, deep and unyielding. "Chain her. The full moon's in three nights."

They dragged her toward the side doors, her boots scraping against the floor. Blood from her split lip left a trail behind her. She caught the Queen's gaze through the haze of battle, the older woman's eyes wide with horror and something else—regret.

"Don't do this!" the Queen shouted, struggling to rise. "Draven—"

"I warned you what would happen if you betrayed me," Draven snarled, not looking back. His voice carried the finality of a death sentence.

Zephyra spat blood onto the floor, twisting in her captors' grip. "We didn't kill her," she rasped, her voice hoarse from shouting. "And when you find out the truth, you'll regret—"

The butt of a spear caught her across the ribs, stealing her breath. Pain flared hot and sharp, but she didn't cry out. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

They dragged her out into the cold night, past burning torches and bodies scattered on the stone steps like broken dolls. The air outside hit her face like a slap, sharp with the scent of snow and blood. Wolves flanked her on both sides, their yellow eyes gleaming in the dark like fallen stars.

Draven followed behind them, silent as death itself. When they reached the waiting carriage, he stepped close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Without warning, he pulled a silver dagger from his belt and pressed it against her waist, the blade biting through fabric and skin. She writhed in pain, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

"Let her mother watch," he said coldly, loud enough for the Queen to hear from the doorway.

The last thing Zephyra saw before they shoved her into the waiting carriage was the Queen, fighting to rise, her crown tilted, her magic flaring weakly around her like dying embers.

Then the doors slammed shut, and the wheels jolted into motion.

And Zephyra Velkaris, Princess of Velkaria, realized she was no longer in her mother's kingdom—she was a prisoner of war, captive to a wolf who would do everything in his power to make sure he took the revenge of his dead wife out on her.

The carriage wheels ground against cobblestone as they carried her into darkness, each turn taking her further from home and deeper into a nightmare that had only just begun.