Chapter 110

Chapter 110: Chapter 110

The seer stood at the edge of the chaos, her milky eyes fixed on the silver-haired figure at the center of the storm. The wind from Nyra’s scream still swirled through the hall, tugging at robes and banners and sending loose papers scattering across the stone floor. The ancient woman’s grip on her gnarled staff tightened until her knuckles went white.

She looked up, past the shattered chandeliers and the fallen banners, past the darkness that had swallowed the hall, toward the heavens themselves. A smile crossed her weathered lips—not of joy, but of grim understanding.

"So it begins," she whispered to the goddess she had served all her life. "The daughter awakens. The realm will tremble."

Her clothes and silver hair flowed backward in the lingering breeze, catching the last remnants of Nyra’s silver light. For a moment, she looked almost young again—a warrior priestess from the ancient days, when the Moon Goddess walked among mortals and the Moonblood line ruled the realm.

Then the moment passed. She shook her head slowly, her expression one of profound despair.

She turned and melted into the shadows, her staff clicking against the stone floor, her hunched figure disappearing into the darkness. No one noticed her leave. No one ever noticed the seer.

The hall was still in chaos.

Corvin pushed himself up from the floor, his ears ringing from the force of Nyra’s scream. His mother was shouting his name somewhere behind him, her voice sharp with fear. Lord Eldritch was trying to push through the crowd toward the silver-haired figure at the center of the hall, but the residual energy from Nyra’s awakening was still radiating outward in pulsing waves, pushing everyone back.

"Nyra!" Corvin shouted, straining against the invisible barrier. "Nyra, can you hear me?"

She didn’t respond. Her silver eyes were fixed on something no one else could see, her hair floating around her face like a halo of liquid moonlight. The blood on her hands was still glowing, pulsing with the same unearthly light that had shattered every torch and lantern in the hall.

Lord Eldritch reached the edge of the barrier and pressed his hands against it, his stern face twisted with a mixture of scientific fascination and genuine fear. "The Moonblood in its full awakening," he breathed. "I never thought I would live to see it."

"Can you get through to her?" Corvin demanded.

"I don’t know. This power—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. It’s not just magic. It’s divine."

Corvin didn’t care if it was divine. He pushed against the barrier with everything he had, his wolf surging beneath his skin, lending him strength. The barrier resisted, then wavered, then—

He was through.

He stumbled forward, his feet carrying him toward Nyra before his mind could catch up. "Nyra. Nyra, look at me. It’s Corvin. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. But you need to come back to us. You need to—"

A blinding light spiraled through the hall.

It erupted from Nyra’s body like a supernova, silver and white and impossibly bright. Everyone in the hall threw their hands up to shield their eyes. Corvin squeezed his shut, the light burning through his eyelids, searing his vision.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished.

The hall was plunged into darkness not the silver-lit darkness of Nyra’s power, but the absolute blackness of a room whose torches had all been extinguished. People stumbled into each other. Voices cried out in confusion. Someone was shouting for lanterns, for candles, for anything that would push back the dark.

"Nyra?" Corvin’s voice was raw. "Nyra!"

There was no answer.

The torches were relit one by one, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the devastated hall. The great chandeliers that had blazed so brilliantly during the pageantry were shattered. The banners lay in heaps on the floor. The stage where Soren and Selene had danced was scorched with silver fire.

But there was no sign of Nyra.

She was gone.

"She vanished," someone whispered. "She just... disappeared."

"Where did she go?"

"Did she teleport?"

"Impossible. No one can teleport."

Corvin stood frozen in the center of the hall, his hands empty, his heart pounding. She was gone. She had vanished into thin air, and he had no idea where she was or if she was safe or if he would ever see her again.

Then he felt something in his pocket.

It hadn’t been there before. He was certain of it. His hand dipped inside, and his fingers brushed against a folded piece of parchment—small, delicate, warm to the touch.

He didn’t pull it out. Not here. Not with everyone watching. But his heart leaped into his throat.

She left me a note, he realized. Whatever happened—wherever she went—she left me a note.

The healers had rushed to Soren’s side the moment the light vanished.

There were six of them—the best the academy had to offer—and they worked with the desperate efficiency of people who knew they were fighting a losing battle. Master Aldric knelt beside the fallen prince, his weathered hands pressing against the wound in Soren’s chest, his expression grim.

"The arrow went clean through," he said, his voice tight. "That’s not the problem. The problem is—" He paused, examining the tip of the arrow that had embedded itself in the wooden pillar. His face went pale. "Poison."

"What kind of poison?" the Queen demanded. She was still holding her son’s hand, her knuckles white, her voice shaking but steady. "Tell me what kind, and I will find the antidote. Whatever it costs. Whatever it takes."

Master Aldric examined the arrow more closely, his expression growing darker with each passing moment. "This isn’t a common poison. I’ve only read about it in the ancient texts. It’s called Nightshade Essence—a toxin so rare that most alchemists believe it’s a myth. It was designed centuries ago to kill Lycans."

The Queen’s face went white. "Lycans?"

"It attacks the wolf first, then the body. It’s extremely potent. The victim’s strength works against them—the stronger the wolf, the faster the poison spreads." He paused, his voice dropping. "There is no known antidote."

"No." The Queen shook her head. "No. There has to be something. There has to be—"

"Your Majesty." Master Aldric’s voice was gentle, the voice of a healer who had delivered this news too many times before. "The prince is gone."

The Queen stared at him. Her face crumpled. And then she let out a sound that would haunt every person in that hall for the rest of their lives—a mother’s wail, raw and primal and utterly broken.

Freya was sobbing, her face buried in her mother’s shoulder. The King stood motionless, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes—his sharp, commanding eyes—were wet. Selene had pressed her hand to her mouth, her amber eyes wide with shock and something that looked almost like grief.

Lord Varek stood at the edge of the chaos, his expression a mask of carefully constructed sorrow. But beneath the mask, his mind was racing. She has that much power. My niece. The girl I dismissed as weak. The girl I tried to have killed. She carries the power of the Moon Goddess herself.

He signaled to one of his guards. The man stepped forward, and Varek leaned close, his voice barely a whisper.

"Find her," he said. "Before anyone else does. I don’t care what it takes. Bring her to me."

The guard nodded and slipped away into the shadows.

Killian stood at the back of the hall, his dark eyes gleaming with triumph.

It had worked. All of it. The poison he had spent months brewing. The arrow he had soaked in it for weeks. The shot he had aimed not at Nyra, but at the space where Soren would inevitably step to protect her. He had known the Sword Sovereign would take the arrow. He had counted on it.

And now Soren Thornridge—the crown prince, the Lycan heir, the Sword Sovereign—was dead.

Killian turned to Draven, who was standing beside him with an expression of dazed disbelief. Without warning, he grabbed Draven’s face and kissed him hard, right there in front of Nikolai and Xavier and anyone else who happened to be looking.

"We did it," he breathed against Draven’s lips. "We actually did it."

Draven’s face split into a grin. "I knew you could do it. I always knew."

Nikolai’s scarred face was unreadable, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his cold eyes. Xavier’s easy smile had returned, wider than ever.

Killian pulled back and stared at the chaos before him—the weeping Queen, the fallen prince, the silver-haired girl who had vanished into thin air. He remembered the day he had first discovered the truth about Nyra Astrlyn.

It was weeks ago. He had been following her, something he did often, tracking her movements, learning her patterns. That night, she had gone to the lake with Corvin. Killian had watched from the shadows, his fists clenched, his heart burning with jealousy. When she left, he had followed her back toward the dormitory.

She had paused in the corridor, turning as if she sensed someone behind her. "Hello?" she had called. "Is someone there?"

Killian had pressed himself against the wall, his hand closing around the dagger at his belt. He could do it right now. He could end her. No one would know.

But he had stopped himself. Killing her in the corridor was too risky. Too easy to get caught. And besides he wanted to make it hurt. He wanted her to suffer the way he had suffered, watching Corvin look at her with those eyes, those warm, devoted eyes that had never once turned toward Killian.

So he had let her go.

But not before he had heard her whisper to herself—a quiet, desperate prayer to the Moon Goddess. And in that moment, he had understood. She wasn’t just a prince in disguise. She was something more. Something ancient. Something powerful.

The next day, he had begun his research. Ancient texts. Forbidden potions. The darkest corners of the alchemical arts. He had learned about the Moonblood lineage, about the power that flowed through Nyra’s veins, about the prophecy that had foretold her coming. And he had learned about the poison that could kill even the strongest Lycan.

It had taken him a month to brew it. Another month to soak the arrow. And all the while, he had smiled at Corvin in the corridors, had pretended to be harmless, had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

That moment had come.

Killian’s smile widened as he watched the chaos unfold. Soren was dead. Nyra was gone. And Corvin—

Corvin was slipping out of the hall, his hand in his pocket, his expression unreadable.

Where are you going, Eldritch? Killian thought. Off to find your precious Nyra?

He would follow him. He would find her. And when he did, he would finish what he had started.

Valeria stood frozen among the instructors, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes fixed on the fallen prince.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She had wanted Nyra exposed. She had wanted Nyra disgraced. She had wanted Soren to finally see the impostor for what she was and turn back to Valeria, the woman who had been there all along.

But this—

An arrow in his chest. Poison in his veins. His blood on the floor. His mother weeping over his body.

This wasn’t victory. This was horror.

He can’t be dead, she thought desperately. He’s the Sword Sovereign. The crown prince. The Lycan heir. He’s survived everything. He can survive this.

But even as she thought it, she knew the truth. The healers had stopped working. The Queen was sobbing. The King had turned away, unable to look at his son’s body any longer.

Soren Thornridge was dead.

And Valeria’s dreams of winning him back had died with him.

The hall cleared slowly, painfully, the way a wound bleeds long after the blade has been removed. Guards escorted the dignitaries to their quarters. Students were herded back to their dormitories. The King and Queen were led away by their attendants, Freya still sobbing between them. Selene walked stiffly, her amber eyes vacant, her perfect composure shattered.

Lord Varek was among the last to leave. He paused at the entrance to the hall and looked back at the devastation—the shattered chandeliers, the scorched floor, the bloodstains that would never fully wash out.

She has more power than I ever imagined, he thought. If I can control her—if I can harness that power—I could rule not just the Astrlyn pack, but the entire realm.

He smiled coldly and walked out.

Corvin moved through the dark corridors alone, his hand still pressed against the note in his pocket. He hadn’t read it yet. He couldn’t. Not here. Not with guards everywhere, searching for Nyra, searching for answers, searching for someone to blame.

He found a quiet alcove near the eastern garden—the same garden where he had held Nyra while she cried, where he had promised to always be there for her, where she had told him she was sorry she couldn’t love him the way he wanted.

He pulled out the note and unfolded it with trembling hands.

The handwriting was Nyra’s—hurried, desperate, but unmistakably hers.

Corvin read the note three times. Then he folded it carefully and tucked it back into his pocket.

She was alive. She had left him a way to find her. And whatever it took—whatever dangers stood in his path—he would not give up on her.

He slipped out of the academy that night, his cloak pulled tight around him, a bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. He knew the guards’ patrol routes by heart. He knew which shadows to hide in, which corridors to avoid. Within minutes, he was outside the walls, moving through the dark forest toward the place Nyra had written about.

One Month Later

The academy had never been the same.

The showcase that was meant to be a celebration had become a nightmare. The crown prince was dead. The Moonblood heir had vanished. The seer’s prophecy had spread through the realm like wildfire destruction is on its way, this is only the beginning. Students walked the corridors with their heads down, their voices hushed. The great hall remained closed, its shattered chandeliers and scorched floor a reminder of what had happened.

The King had returned to the palace to deal with the political fallout. The Queen had locked herself in her chambers and refused to see anyone except Freya. Selene had returned to Silvermoon Academy, her engagement officially in limbo with the prince’s death. Lord Varek had assumed full control of the Astrlyn pack, claiming grief for his murdered nephew and vowing to find his treacherous niece and bring her to justice.

And Corvin had become a ghost.

He moved through the forest in the dead of night, his cloak pulled tight around him, a small lantern swinging from his hand. The bag over his shoulder was heavy with supplies—food, medicine, potions, books. He had made this journey every week for the past month, always at night, always alone, always careful to ensure he wasn’t followed.

The path was familiar now. He could have walked it blindfolded.

After nearly an hour of walking, he reached a small clearing deep in the heart of the forest. A hut stood at its center—old and weathered, its roof patched with moss, its windows dark. It was the kind of place no one would think to look. The kind of place that didn’t exist on any map.

He approached the door and knocked in a specific pattern—three short raps, a pause, two more.

The door creaked open. A hand reached out from the darkness within.

Corvin passed the bag to the waiting hand. No words were exchanged. None were needed.

The door closed. The bolt slid back into place.

Corvin stood there for a moment, staring at the weathered wood. Then he turned and began the long walk back to the academy, not looking behind him.

Whatever was inside that hut—whoever was inside that hut—the world wasn’t ready to know yet.

But soon, it would be.