Chapter 6

Aria

I wake with the strange, warm feeling of being held.

Not by arms. By the earth itself.

There is something more than warmth this time—something sacred. A sense of welcome, of anticipation. Like the forest has been waiting for me to return.

The moss beneath me is thick and soft, cradling me like it knows I’m meant to be here. A faint pulse hums beneath my skin, echoing through the glade. Around me, I hear the soft sound of rain—but none of it touches me. The drops patter against the leaves just beyond the ring of standing stones, falling everywhere except inside the glade.

It’s like nature itself has drawn a boundary to protect me. Or celebrate me.

As I shift slightly, I feel something against my skin—cool, silky. I sit up slowly, pushing myself up on trembling hands, and realize I’m no longer bare.

A dress clings to my frame, woven from the forest itself. Petals, leaves, and fibers that shimmer silver-green in the firelight. The texture is impossibly soft, fitted perfectly as though grown to match my shape. Vines wrap gently around my arms like armlets. Tiny blossoms bloom along the hem.

My breath catches. It’s not just a dress. It’s a gift.

I lift a hand to my hair and find it threaded with small wildflowers. Pale lavender and deep blue, moon-blushed white. Braided through loose curls with care I never expected.

The forest dressed me.

Like it knows who I am.

Like it remembers.

Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. This isn’t grief. It’s reverence. Belonging.

I look around at my surroundings, taking it all in. My body aches, but the fire nearby sends off a steady heat that helps push back the chill. Sera sits beside it, crouched low, turning something over a small iron pan. The scent of herbs and meat fills the air—something earthy and familiar.

She doesn’t look up. “You sleep heavy, little wolf.”

I blink. “You’re… cooking?”

“Even witches get hungry,” she says dryly. “And you need strength for what comes next.”

I pull my knees to my chest, eyes drifting upward. The clouds overhead churn slowly, gray and heavy. Rain still falls steadily around the glade’s edges, but not a single drop crosses the invisible line around us.

“This place,” I murmur. “It’s like it’s alive.”

“It is,” she replies simply, flipping whatever she’s cooking. “This forest has old blood. It remembers. It protects those it chooses. And now, it’s chosen you.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

Instead, I whisper, “Why me?”

Sera tosses a few dried herbs into the pan, the scent growing richer. “Because your blood sings the same song the trees do. Because something inside you remembers the power that was stolen from your family. And because the forest has always looked after its own.”

She finally turns her head, meeting my eyes. “And you, Aria Nightshade, are the last of a very rare kind.”

I exhale slowly. “Tell me about them. The Nightshades.”

She plates the food without answering. When she finally speaks, it’s with the cadence of someone reciting history from memory, not a story.

“They were a royal bloodline, yes. But they weren’t just rulers. They were guardians. Of the forest. Of magic. Of balance.” She sets the plate beside me, then returns to the fire, stirring a small pot. “Your ancestors were wolves born with an extra gift. Bloodlines touched by moonlight itself. It made them more—stronger, faster, wiser. Some said they could speak to the wind or command the shadows.”

I glance at my hands. They don’t look like they belong to a legend.

She watches me. “The power was feared, even among the packs. Especially by those who wanted to rule through fear, not balance.”

My throat tightens. “And they were killed.”

Sera nods slowly. “Hunted. Betrayed. Erased. Their lands were burned, and their names were stripped from the records. Most records… or so they believed. The wolves that didn’t die were scattered or silenced. And one child—a girl, they say—was taken and hidden away.”

Me.

The fire cracks. The rain falls harder outside the circle, but here, it’s warm and quiet.

“Why wasn’t I killed too?” I whisper.

“Because someone loved you enough to risk everything to hide you,” she says gently. “There was a woman in the final days. She fled with a newborn. Disappeared into the wild. Some say she died. Others say she lived long enough to bind the girl’s power, to keep her safe from those who would feel it if it was left unchecked.”

I stare into the flames. My heart pounds in my chest. “You think that girl was me.”

Sera shrugs, but her expression softens. “I’ve seen stranger things. And your shift… it wasn’t just a first transformation. It was an unsealing. Your blood burned off the binds. That only happens with royal bloodlines. Magical ones.”

My mind reels.

Magic. Royalty. A family I never knew I had. A life that was stolen before I could even crawl.

And a bond I felt with a king who rejected me without ever knowing what I truly was.

I press my hand to my shoulder. The mark still pulses softly beneath the skin.

“Are there others like me?” I ask. “Other Nightshades?”

She shakes her head. “If there are, they’re well-hidden. But power like yours doesn’t lie quietly forever. It always surfaces.”

I turn toward her slowly. “Then why now?”

Her pale eyes meet mine. “Because something is coming. A shift in power. The old magic is stirring. And wolves like you—wolves of blood and moonlight—you were born for moments like this.”

I close my eyes. For the first time since the ceremony, I don’t feel broken. I feel… angry.

Angry that I was hidden. Angry that they all treated me like I was nothing. Angry that he—the Alpha King—looked me in the eyes, felt the bond, and still cast me aside.

I open my eyes. “I want to learn.”

Sera smiles.

“I thought you might.”

She stands and gestures toward a nearby stone carved with runes. “Eat. Rest. And then we begin.”

I nod, chewing slowly, letting the flavours of the herbs ground me.

As the fire crackles and the glade breathes around us, a question bubbles up from somewhere deeper than thought.

I ask it quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

“Do you know… who my mother was?”

Sera pauses. Her face darkens—not with fear, but with memory.

“I have a guess,” she says. “A name whispered by the wind. A warrior. A protector. The last daughter of the Nightshade line.”

I lean forward.

Sera meets my eyes.

“Her name was Lyriana.”