Chapter 113 The Wolf’s Lullaby

Chapter 113 The Wolf’s Lullaby
The night settled gently, as if the world itself feared to wake what stirred beneath Ember’s ribs.

Sleep took her slowly.

Not the restless, vision-torn sleep of recent nights, but something deeper weighted, deliberate. When she dreamed, she did not fall.

She arrived.

Ember stood in a meadow washed in twilight, the grass silvered by moonlight. The air smelled of pine and frost and something older memory. A low fire burned nearby, its flames steady and calm, casting long shadows that did not waver.

She knew this place.

Not by sight.

By feeling.

“Lila?” Ember whispered.

The name left her lips before she realized she’d spoken it.

A figure stepped from the firelight.

She wore her familiar leathers, dark hair braided back as always, eyes sharp and warm in equal measure. No blood. No wounds. No trace of how she had died.

Just Lila.

Whole.

Alive in the way only memory and spirit could be.

Ember’s breath broke. “I thought… I hoped…”

Lila smiled softly. “You hoped I’d come when you were ready.”

Tears spilled freely down Ember’s cheeks as she crossed the distance between them. She stopped just short of touching, instinctively respectful of the boundary between worlds.

“I miss you,” Ember said.

“I know,” Lila replied. “I’ve been close. Always.”

The fire crackled gently. Somewhere beyond the meadow, a wolf began to sing, not a howl, but something lower, melodic. A lullaby carried on the wind.

Lila turned her gaze toward Ember’s belly, eyes softening.

“So,” she said lightly. “This is the little flame everyone’s whispering about.”

Ember laughed weakly through tears. “They’re already talking?”

“They’ve always talked,” Lila said. “This time, they’re just listening.”

Ember rested her hand over her stomach. The warmth there responded instantly, gentle, curious.

“I’m scared,” Ember admitted. “Not of being a mother. Of what the world will try to make them.”

Lila stepped closer then, her presence solidifying. “That’s why I’m here.”

She knelt, placing her hand, not on Ember, but just above her belly. Light bloomed beneath her palm, silver threaded with gold.

“This child carries fire,” Lila said. “But fire doesn’t only destroy. It warms. It guides. It protects.”

Ember swallowed. “The visions say otherwise.”

Lila snorted softly. “Visions show possibility, not truth. And they rarely account for stubborn mothers.”

That earned a shaky smile.

“You were always the bravest one,” Ember said.

“No,” Lila corrected gently. “I was brave because you were worth guarding.”

The lullaby deepened, harmonizing with the fire’s rhythm. Ember felt the child stir, peaceful now, soothed.

“I won’t be there,” Lila continued, voice quieter. “Not the way I was before.”

Ember’s chest tightened. “I know.”

“But I will watch,” Lila said firmly. “And when this child cries for the first time, they won’t be alone.”

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead lightly to Ember’s.

“I bless this child,” Lila said, voice resonant and sure. “With courage that does not harden. With strength that does not silence kindness. With fire that answers love before rage.”

The light flared brightly, then settled.

Ember sobbed openly now, grief and gratitude tangled together. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Lila rose, stepping back toward the fire. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

Lila’s expression sharpened, just slightly. “The birth will not be easy.”

Ember stiffened. “I know.”

“But it will be true,” Lila said. “And when the sky darkens, don’t fear it. The moon does not eclipse to take light away.”

“It does so to remind the world how precious light is.”

The meadow began to fade.

“Lila, wait!”

Lila paused at the edge of firelight, turning back one last time. “Sing to them,” she said. “Even when you’re afraid.”

Then she was gone.

Ember woke with a gasp, tears soaking the pillow.

Damien was already there, hands steady on her shoulders. “You were crying,” he said softly. “But the bond, there was no fear.”

She nodded shakily. “Lila came.”

Damien closed his eyes briefly, reverence washing over his features. “Did she…”

“She blessed the child,” Ember said. “She warned me too.”

His jaw tightened. “About what?”

“The birth,” Ember replied. “It will happen under shadow.”

Damien exhaled slowly.

Outside, the night wind rose, carrying distant howls that sounded almost like song.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

The child grew heavy within her, fire and warmth coiling stronger each night. Ember sang often, soft melodies Lila once hummed while sharpening blades, while standing watch, while pretending not to care.

The child always responded.

Then one night, the moons shifted.

Damien woke with a jolt as power surged through the bond. Ember sat upright, breath sharp.

“It’s time,” she whispered.

Outside, the sky darkened unnaturally fast. The twin moons began their slow, inevitable alignment.

An eclipse.

Too perfect.

Too soon.

Ember cried out as pain rippled through her—not unbearable, but commanding. Damien caught her instantly, lifting her without hesitation.

The fortress erupted into motion.

As they rushed through torchlit corridors, Ember clutched Damien’s shoulder, breathing through the rising tide.

“Damien,” she gasped. “If anything happens…”

“Nothing will,” he said fiercely.

But as the first shadow swallowed the moon entirely, the child’s fire surged violently, hotter than ever before.

And far beyond the fortress walls, unseen by any guard or scout, ancient flames answered the call.

The eclipse had begun.

And the world was holding its breath.