Chapter 8 ASHES OF A QUEEN
The moonlight felt colder in the North.
It poured in pale ribbons through the tower corridors, stretching long and silent, as if even the light here had learned how to keep secrets.
Aria followed Roman and Kael through the winding halls, her heartbeat drumming harder with each step. She had been summoned—not by Roman this time, but by Seris.
“She needs to understand what came before,” Seris had said. “Before the prophecy starts becoming her.”
The doors ahead were carved with the eclipse sigil again—not painted. Burned. As if whoever carved them didn’t use tools, but heat.
Roman paused at them, his hand resting flat against the scorched wood.
For once—he looked reluctant to enter.
Kael gave him a long, quiet look. A warning? A question? Or simply shared memory?
Roman said nothing.
Just pushed the doors open—
And the past slammed into Aria like a gust of cold fire.
The chamber wasn't large. Not grand. It wasn’t meant for royalty.
It was meant for remembrance.
Tapestries lined the walls—darkened with age, fraying at the edges—but still vivid with scenes she recognized, even though she’d never been taught them.
A woman with silver eyes and a crown of twisted moon-antlers, leading wolves across a field of embers.
A throne split by fire.
A burning eclipse painted in cruel, metallic thread—surrounded by falling crowns.
At the center of the room stood a single stone pedestal.
On it—rested a charred crown.
Not gold.
Not silver.
Something older.
Blackened. Twisted. Burned.
And next to it—
A single ring.
Not destroyed.
Not melted.
Moon-silver.
Untouched by flame.
Aria couldn’t breathe.
“That,” Seris’s voice came from a corner, quiet but clear, “is all that survived of Queen Elaria Nightwolf. Roman’s mother.”
Aria’s gaze flew to Roman.
He didn’t look away.
He was watching the crown.
Watching the past.
Only his hands betrayed tension—the fingers folded behind him were clenched hard enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
Seris stepped forward.
“She was born under a Blood Eclipse too,” she said, her voice gentle, but not soft. “She had power like yours. Rare. Too rare. The Council called it a blessing. The King called it a miracle. The priests called it a sign of the Moon’s favor.”
“And the prophecy?” Aria whispered.
Seris nodded. “They didn’t share the whole thing with her. Only the part that said A Luna born of moonfire will lead us into a new age.”
Aria stared at the burned crown.
“Did she?” she asked.
Seris' lips thinned. “She led them into something. But it was not the future she thought.”
Roman finally turned.
His voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
“She wanted to unite the packs,” he said. “Make peace. End the throne wars. The prophecy said she would bring an age of light.”
His eyes met Aria’s.
“It didn’t mention the ashes first.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Aria’s throat tightened. “Did they burn her because they feared her?”
Roman’s expression didn’t change.
“They burned her,” he said, “because they loved her.”
Aria flinched. “That makes no sense.”
“Yes,” Roman said quietly. “It does.”
His voice had no armor now.
No cold.
Only truth.
“Because when she started to change,” he said, “they convinced themselves it wasn’t her anymore. That the ‘moonfire’ had consumed her—that prophecy had taken her mind. They said her eyes were too bright… her voice too strange. Her dreams too dark.”
Kael’s voice joined quietly. “They said she was becoming dangerous—even though she had not harmed anyone.”
“They were afraid,” Seris whispered. “Afraid of watching someone they adored become something they didn’t understand.”
“They were afraid,” Roman repeated, jaw tightening, “of watching her become stronger than they could ever control.”
Aria stared at the blackened crown, at the single silver ring—untouched by flame.
The only thing that magic wouldn’t destroy.
Her voice was barely a breath. “Was she… mad?”
“No,” Roman said.
“They just needed her to be.”
The words hit harder than anything before.
Aria understood then.
It wasn’t just fear.
It was cowardice.
They didn’t kill her because she was dangerous.
They killed her because she was powerful.
Roman moved closer to the pedestal.
Almost unconsciously.
The moonlight caught on his silver bloodline ring—the only thing he ever wore.
He looked at Aria—not at her face.
At her veins.
“You want to know why I train you like a blade?” he asked. “Why I don’t soften it? Why I don’t tell you it will be beautiful?”
She didn’t answer.
He stepped closer. Her pulse jumped.
“Because the moment your power makes them uncomfortable,” he said softly, “they will call it madness.”
His voice dropped lower.
“The moment it stops being useful…”
He looked back at the burned crown.
“They will call it a threat.”
Silence fell.
Aria had no words.
She thought of the cracked pillar.
The scorch on her skin.
The way warriors had watched her after she struck Roman.
Fear.
Awe.
Resentment.
And something worse.
Expectation.
“Do you understand now, Aria,” Roman said, voice barely above a whisper, “why you cannot afford to be harmless?”
It wasn’t a question.
She could only nod.
Her veins flickered.
Not with fear.
With warning.
The magic in her had heard.
Seris exhaled slowly. “The last Luna died because she asked the world to be softer than it was.”
Now Seris looked at Aria.
“You won’t make that mistake.”
A chill raced up Aria’s spine.
She didn’t know if that was a promise…
Or a prophecy.
She looked at Roman.
He was watching her now.
Not cold.
Not gentle.
He looked like someone who was ready to burn down an entire kingdom…
If it meant keeping one Luna alive.
She didn’t say it aloud.
But something inside her finally accepted what the moon had been whispering since it awakened her:
You are no longer here to be loved.
You are here to be feared.