EXACTLY WHAT I HOPED FOR
EXACTLY WHAT I HOPED FOR
Elira didn’t expect Aria to arrive that early. In the underworld of deadly trials, most people never made it out.
For a thousand years, nobody had survived. People were sent there for validation and identity recognition.
Normal wolves or beings couldn’t last a day in that place—yet Aria had survived, and worse, she had come back earlier than expected.
Elira smiled. “I may have underrated her,” she said with a cunning grin.
The moment Aria’s feet touched the soil of Earth, the world seemed to react.
The sky split open with a deafening rumble, lightning tearing jagged scars across the clouds. The ground trembled beneath her feet as if the earth itself recognized what had returned through its gates.
Wind howled through the streets, snatching leaves, dust, and debris into a wild dance. The air was sharp, charged, alive with something unnatural.
Then came the rain—violent, unrelenting. Sheets of water crashed against rooftops, drumming on windows like war drums. It was the kind of storm that swallowed sound, the kind that blurred the horizon into a dark, swirling chaos.
The humans were thrown into disorder. Everyone trembled, begging whatever they believed in to rescue them.
In towns and villages, people slammed shutters and barred their doors. Candles flickered nervously inside cramped rooms as families huddled together, whispering prayers they hadn’t spoken in years. No one dared to step outside. Whatever was out there was not meant to be met with human eyes.
The humans believed wolves existed, and they knew to what extent wolves could be mad.
So they convinced themselves that maybe this was one of those days when unusual things happened in the wolves’ territory—because no human or forecaster could explain what was happening.
The wind blew violently, rain poured, and the earth shook. Everyone was in fear, for nobody knew what had caused the commotion.
Far away, deep in the mountain territories, the wolves stirred. Howls cut through the wind—raw and uneasy. The elders of the packs gathered under shelter, their fur slick with rain, their voices low and urgent. This storm was no ordinary thing, and they all knew it.
The wind ripped roofs apart. Many wolves were left exposed to danger. Little wolves shivered in the cold while their parents tried to keep them warm.
Damien and Dominic were deeply confused. The last time this had happened was when Dominic was born, and since then, nothing of this nature had ever returned.
In wolf history, such a tempest had been recorded only twice before—once when an S-tier Alpha was born, and once when the Moon Goddess herself descended to crown her chosen. But no Alpha birth had been announced, and no Moon Goddess had been seen in centuries.
Confusion spread like wildfire among them. Young wolves who were strong enough asked questions the elders could not answer.
The council held an urgent meeting. They had to find the cause of the commotion and how to resolve it.
They were not going to sit back and watch their people die. Orders were sent out for the wolves to move into the caves—but it wasn’t going to be an easy feat.
“You know this is a bad idea,” one of the elders said.
Another grunted. “Do you have a better idea? Pray we survive this hailstorm instead of complaining over decisions you can’t make,” the elder snapped, then sighed.
The first elder shrugged. “I was just stating fact, not causing trouble,” he replied softly.
“Your face is not needed here. Save it, please!” the other snarled.
Everywhere grew silent as they waited for further instructions while carrying out the first commands that had been given.
Warriors paced restlessly, tails lashing. The air tasted of omen and danger.
Only Elira knew the truth.
—
Aria did not run from the storm. She stood in the heart of it, her hair plastered to her face, rain streaking over her pale skin. Her eyes, molten gold, reflected every flash of lightning. The storm bent around her, as though it had been summoned just for her return.
Far from the streets, inside a secluded shrine carved deep into the cliffs, Elira knelt before a stone altar.
She laughed as though her victory day had come. Her voice echoed through the walls of the cave.
The air in the chamber was thick with incense, curling smoke weaving into the dim candlelight. Before her lay a spread of ancient relics—bones carved with runes, a dagger blackened by time, a bowl of water darkened with crushed herbs.
“This storm is her mark,” Elira murmured, her fingers tracing symbols into the wet stone floor. “The world knows she has crossed back.”
She began to chant, her voice low and rhythmic, each syllable echoing against the walls. The candles flickered violently, shadows stretching like claws along the stone.
She danced and sang. Damien rushed in to ask her why such weather had befallen the land—but he was shocked by what he saw.
Damien scoffed. “Why are you dancing when so many are crying?” he fired at her. “Are you not concerned about the situation everyone is in now?”
Elira paid him no attention. She continued her ritual. Damien couldn’t believe his eyes—this was not what he expected.
The ritual was not for summoning—Aria was already here. This was for confirmation, for the proof Elira had been waiting for since the moment she sensed the change.
Damien walked away when he could no longer understand what was going on. Elira was losing it, and he had better things to think of. He turned his back before Elira could speak her final word.
As the last syllable left her lips, the bowl of water rippled violently. The surface swirled until it reflected an image—not of the Aria who had left, but of something sharper, darker, hungrier.
Elira’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.
“She is exactly what I hoped for,” she whispered to the storm.
Outside, the thunder roared again—louder, deeper—as if the sky itself agreed. And in the forests, the wolves raised the
ir heads to the heavens, uneasy under the weight of an omen they could not yet name.