Chapter 13 “Silverfang”
Dawn in Silverfang never comes softly.
It burns through the sky like a blade, spilling light that’s too cold to be sun and too alive to be moon. I stand on the terrace of my citadel, the wind clawing at my cloak, watching as the light fractures across the valley. The mountains glint like teeth. The realm is awake again—and so is the mark on my hand.
A faint pulse stirs beneath my skin.
It always happens at the same hour.
And every time, it feels like something—or someone—is calling.
Below, the wolves begin their morning cry, a sound that echoes through my bones. The valley answers them, ancient and restless. There are days I think this land breathes through me. Days I wish it didn’t.
“Your Highness.”
Rion’s voice breaks through the wind. My commander steps out from the shadows of the archway, his armor catching what little light the sky offers. He drops to one knee.
“The High Council awaits. They want to address the boundary tremors again.”
I don’t turn to face him. My eyes remain on the horizon. “They call them tremors because they’re afraid to name what they really are.”
“Then what would you call them, my lord?”
I close my fist around the pulse in my palm. “The gate.”
Rion’s silence stretches like a blade between us. I can almost hear his heartbeat quicken. “Forgive me, sire, but the gate has been sealed for centuries.”
I finally glance back at him. “Then tell me why I can hear it whisper.”
He lowers his gaze. “Perhaps… it’s only an echo.”
“No,” I whisper. “It’s a summons.”
The wind shifts then—sharp, cold, heavy with the scent of something I can’t quite name. Rain. Smoke. Saltwater. And beneath it all, a trace of warmth that doesn’t belong here. The scent of the human realm. It shouldn’t reach this far. But it does.
When Rion leaves, I stay there, staring at the faint glow rising over the obsidian mountains. The light bends oddly, rippling like breath on glass. I feel it in my bones again—that pull, like a thread tugging from a world not my own.
I turn back into the palace, through halls carved from shadowed quartz. The walls themselves hum with magic, alive with the same pulse that lives beneath my skin. Servants bow as I pass; some whisper blessings under their breath. I can feel their fear—the same fear that has followed me since birth.
The heir of Silverfang.
The cursed prince.
The one born under two moons, marked by both night and day.
They say I’m destined to bridge worlds… or destroy them.
Inside the war hall, the council is already waiting. Seven elders, robed in silver threads, faces pale and ageless beneath the glow of rune-light. Their voices fall silent as I enter.
“Your Highness,” says Elder Mara, her tone polished and careful. “The tremors along the veil are growing stronger. We believe the balance may be—”
“Fractured,” I finish for her. “It already is.”
The others exchange uneasy glances.
I walk to the center of the chamber, resting my hand against the obsidian map carved into the table. It pulses faintly beneath my palm, showing the division between realms—a scar of light splitting dark stone. “Something has awakened on the other side,” I tell them. “Something that answers the gate.”
Elder Kalen leans forward. “Do you speak of the Seer’s prophecy?”
I look up sharply. “You mean the one you forbade anyone from repeating?”
He flinches. “My lord—”
“The prophecy speaks of a heart born in both worlds,” I say, my voice low. “A being who carries the light of one and the shadow of the other. When she awakens, the gate will tremble, and the bloodlines will rise.”
“‘She’?” Elder Mara echoes, eyes narrowing.
I shouldn’t have said it. But the word had slipped too easily, as if it had always belonged to her. Whoever she is.
I exhale slowly. “Forget it.”
The council murmurs among themselves. I feel their doubt like heat against my skin, but I don’t care. I’ve seen too many signs to ignore what I feel. The mark on my palm burns softly, syncing to a rhythm that isn’t mine. Somewhere far beyond the veil, something stirs—and it’s tied to me.
When the meeting ends, I retreat to my chambers. The room feels too still, too silent. I remove my gloves, staring down at the faint symbol etched into my skin—silver light swirling like smoke. It moves, alive, reacting to the air.
For years, I’ve trained myself to ignore it. But lately, it’s been growing stronger, more insistent. And tonight, as the light flickers across the mountains, I swear I hear a voice whisper my name.
“Aiden…”
It’s soft, fragile, human.
My heart stops.
I spin toward the window, but there’s nothing—only the storm-dark sky, rolling in waves of light and shadow. Still, the whisper lingers, wrapping around me like a ghost of warmth.
I press my hand to my chest, forcing a breath. “Who are you?” I whisper into the night.
No answer comes. Only the howl of wolves from far below—long, low, and aching.
But I can’t shake the feeling that the voice belongs to someone real.
Someone across the gate.
And somehow, she’s calling me home.