The trial ground lay at the heart of the ancient ruin—a sunken arena, ringed with stone steps carved in spirals around a pit that breathed old magic. Pillars etched with runes pulsed faintly under the full moon's glow, casting eerie shadows on moss-darkened walls. Torches flickered with blue flame, the fire not lit by hand, but by rite.
The werewolves assembled in silence. Dozens of them filled the stone tiers, seated or crouched like lions at rest—silent, watchful, waiting. Their expressions were unreadable, but their hunger for judgment was clear. This was not just a trial—it was a rite of dominance, of blood, of belonging.
Barn stood near the edge, arms folded, his massive frame casting a long shadow. His smile was a crooked line, half-mocking, half-curious.
Lethea leaned on a jagged stone, long fingers twirling a bone dagger with idle boredom. But her gaze was sharp—tracking every move like a panther waiting for a stumble.
In the center of it all, Gwi stood alone, stripped of cloak and title. Only his scars remained, and his breath.
Lycaon stepped forward from the high seat, flanked by two torchbearers, cloak rippling behind him like smoke.
"By ancient law," he announced, voice echoing through the ruin, "you, once of the blood, now walking among sheep, have returned to the den. To reclaim what was burned, to face what was denied."
He raised his hand, the silver ring on his finger catching moonlight.
"You will face the Moonfire Rite. Endure the flame that remembers. Survive it, and you may speak among us as kin again."
He smiled faintly.
"Fail it, and you return to ash."
A hush fell.
The torches flared—blue turning white.
Lyn stepped out from the shadows, carrying a ceremonial bowl carved of obsidian, filled with liquid flame. She didn’t meet Gwi’s eyes, but as she passed him, her fingers grazed his wrist—almost accidental.
But it lingered.
He looked back.
Her face was unreadable, her lips set in a straight line. But her eyes—those cool, grey eyes—flashed with something else. Something that did not feel like worry.
It felt like warning.
Or… was it restraint?
She stepped aside.
The trial began.
The Moonfire Rite
The circle lit in fire—pure, searing moonlight drawn from ancestral energy. The flames didn’t burn flesh, not at first—they burned truth. Gwi stepped into the circle, and immediately his breath caught.
Every lie he had buried—every doubt, every rage, every secret fear—was dragged to the surface.
The fire pierced through his chest like molten memory.
He saw the council chambers filled with contemptuous faces. Nobles whispering behind fans and folded scrolls. "A beast sits on the throne," they hissed. "A mongrel child wearing a king's crown." Their laughter burned deeper than any flame.
He saw Siera, standing before him after one of the many failed attempts to bring peace. Her face tired. Her voice calm. "You did what you could, Gwi." But behind her words, he saw the reflection of what he feared most—that she no longer believed it.
He saw the people of Hwon, running in fear when werewolves attacked. Children screaming. Mothers clutching their dead. And he—powerless. A king made of claws and guilt.
He saw the dead. Every soldier that fell in his name. Every family that cried under his rule. Every price paid by someone else for his blood.
The fire took that guilt and turned it into iron shackles.
His knees hit the ground.
He saw Siera wounded. Her blood on snow. Her breath shallow. And he wasn't there in time. Again.
He saw himself in a mirror. Fangs bared. Eyes feral. Crown cracked. The reflection sneered: "You were never meant to be king. Only a beast they pitied."
His heart pounded like a war drum. His breath became smoke.
The fire demanded surrender.
And in its white-hot core, it demanded him. Not his body—but the parts of him he had kept hidden, even from himself.
Gwi's breath choked in his throat. He staggered, clutching at the air as if he could rip out the memories burning his mind. But they came unrelenting.
He heard them—voices from the past, from the court, from the people he ruled.
"Monster."
"Pretender."
"He only wears the crown because she placed it there."
"A mutt. A shadow of a real king."
The fire twisted around his legs like serpents, coiling through his chest, dragging his heart open. Gwi trembled. His teeth clenched so tightly they drew blood.
He saw himself at Siera’s side—but always a step behind, always doubting if he deserved her trust. He saw her bleeding again. He saw the moment she almost died, and the silence that followed in his chambers that night when he couldn’t breathe through the guilt.
He whispered to himself, "I wasn’t enough. I’m never enough."
And deeper still—he saw the throne room empty. The crown abandoned. And himself, alone, not as a king, not as a man—but as a beast, kneeling among ruins he had caused.
Tears blurred his vision. The fire was in his head now, in his bones—whispers curled into screams.
He bowed under the weight, shuddering, nearly collapsing again.
"Maybe they’re right," he thought. "Maybe I was never meant to rule. Maybe all I bring is ruin."
But then—one breath.
One memory.
Siera’s voice: "You are the man I trust with everything."
And in that fragile memory, he found anchor.
He screamed—not in rage, but in pain—and pushed upward.
Lethea whispered to Barn, "He’s close to breaking."
But he didn’t.
He remembered.
He remembered Siera's hand on his cheek the night before his coronation.
"You are more than your blood."  He remember the first time he bled for her—deep in the forest, when a beast lashed across his side, and she had nothing but a torn ribbon and trembling hands. They were still children, he barely standing, chest heaving. But he looked at her through the pain, her delicate hand and strong gaze become her resolve. And the ways she smile to him, so beautiful.
He clung to it.
He stood.
He roared.
And the flame recoiled—not extinguished, but yielded.
He didn’t burn.
He endured.
Silence. No cheers. Just the crackle of torches and the echo of his breath.
Lycaon stepped forward slowly. His face unreadable.
He looked down at Gwi—sweat-soaked, blood at the corner of his mouth, still breathing.
"You passed."
The words were flat.
But his fingers twitched at his side—subtle, fast.
A crack in control.
His lips parted, and for just a second, the mask slipped.
There was no anger.
Only… disappointment.
And something deeper.
Loss.
He had wanted Gwi to fail.
He had counted on it.
Lyn stood off to the side, face turned from the torchlight. But as Gwi staggered out of the flame, her posture changed—shoulders stiffening, eyes following every step.
For the briefest flicker, her mouth twitched—not in relief.
In frustration.
She looked away too quickly.
Too practiced.
But Gwi saw it.
He saw it—and knew something shifted beneath her calm.
Lycaon gave no praise.
He turned from Gwi and raised his hand.
“Let it be known. He passed. The flame does not lie.”
He descended the steps, cloak trailing behind him like the closing of a curtain.
Barn snorted. “Would’ve been more fun if he screamed.”
Lethea sighed. “Or begged.”
Lyn said nothing.
Gwi looked around at them all—the pack, the audience, the shadows.
And though the trial was over…
He knew the real test had just begun.