Chapter 3 — Tempest at Silverrun

Third Person (Emilia and Ryden alternating)

The faint glow of Silverrun River cast an eerie light over the forest. The water coursed swiftly, its silver luminescence illuminating the moonlit flora that dotted the banks. Emilia stood at the edge of the river, her arms crossed over her chest as the chilled air tugged at the edges of her cloak. A light mist clung to the ground, curling around her boots with an almost sentient persistence. She had arrived early, needing the solitude to gather her thoughts before the inevitable confrontation.

Her eyes scanned the river’s surface, its currents rippling with faint silver tendrils that seemed to reach toward her before vanishing. The air felt heavier here, saturated with magic. The river was alive tonight in a way that made her skin prickle.

Across the shimmering water, the distant scent of pine and damp earth mingled with the faint metallic tang of magic. The river seemed to pulse with an odd rhythm, as though the moon itself were holding its breath. Emilia’s keen ears picked up the approach of footsteps—a confident gait that she already knew too well. Her jaw tightened, and she forced her expression into one of impassive authority.

Ryden emerged from the shadows, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the trees. His broad shoulders were draped in a dark cloak, the full moon’s light catching the pale scars that lined his hands and forearms. His piercing ice-blue eyes locked onto Emilia the instant he stepped into view, his expression hard, guarded. A faint breeze carried his scent—a mix of clean pine and the sharp tang of iron that made her stomach twist with unwelcome familiarity.

“You’re late,” Emilia said, her voice cold and sharp as the wind slicing through the trees.

Ryden stopped a few strides away from her, his posture relaxed but his gaze unyielding. “I didn’t realize this was meant to be punctual,” he replied, his tone clipped. “I assumed we’d spend most of this time arguing anyway.”

Emilia’s lip curled into the faintest sneer. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, then. You know why I called this meeting.”

Ryden raised an eyebrow, his arms folding loosely across his chest. “Because you feel some burning need to blame me for all the world’s problems? Or was there an actual reason?”

Her golden-amber eyes flared, a faint glow catching in their depths. “Don’t test me, Veyrath. I’ve had enough of your deflection and arrogance.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a dangerous growl. “The Lunar Bond might tether us, but don’t think for a second that it changes what you are. The blood of my parents is on your hands.”

For a moment, Ryden’s mask slipped—just enough for Emilia to catch a flicker of something in his expression: guilt, perhaps, or anger at the allegation. He recovered quickly, his voice low and steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve hated my clan for so long that you’d rather believe in ghosts than face the truth.”

“Truth?” Emilia’s voice cracked slightly, barely perceptible, but she steadied herself with a sharp intake of breath. “What truth, Ryden? That your people have been clawing at Crescent Hollow’s borders for years? That my parents died in an ambush suspiciously close to your territory? How convenient.” Her words dripped with venom, but beneath her anger, the bond hummed faintly, betraying the raw, unspoken pain threading through her.

Ryden’s response was immediate, his voice rising with sharp conviction. “And what about your clan’s raids on my lands? Or the elders of Crescent Hollow meddling with ancient magic they didn’t understand? You think your hands are clean, Lysarion? Spare me your sanctimony.”

The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken accusations and barely restrained fury. The distant rush of the river seemed to mirror the storm brewing between them, its currents surging faster as if the land itself reacted to their presence.

“I didn’t come here to trade insults,” Emilia said finally, her voice quieter but no less forceful. “There’s something wrong with the land, Ryden. Even you can’t deny it.”

Ryden frowned, the shift in her tone catching his attention. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with quiet suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

“The signs are everywhere,” Emilia said, motioning toward the riverbank. “The flowers are withering. The trees are scarred with marks that no ordinary beast could make. The Lunar Bond didn’t just tie us together—it woke something.”

Ryden’s brows furrowed, his fingers brushing absently over the hilt of the dagger at his waist. His voice dropped, the sarcasm fading. “You’ve seen it too, then.”

Emilia’s eyes narrowed. “What have you seen, Ryden?”

He hesitated, his expression guarded. The memory of the shared vision during the bond ritual—the blood-red moon and the jagged shadow—flashed unbidden in his mind. “The same thing you did,” he said reluctantly. “The shadow. The blood. Whatever it is, it’s tied to the ritual. And it’s coming.”

Emilia stepped closer, her voice urgent. “Then we need to figure out what it is before it’s too late. If this thing is a threat to the clans—”

“What makes you think I care?” Ryden interrupted, his tone sharp. “My only concern is my people. If your precious Crescent Hollow burns, that’s not my problem.”

Her hand shot out before she could think better of it, grabbing the front of his cloak and yanking him closer. Their faces were inches apart now, her eyes blazing with fury. “You arrogant bastard,” she hissed. “If this thing destroys Crescent Hollow, it won’t stop there. You think Shadowfang Keep is safe? You think your strength makes you untouchable? This is bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than our clans.”

Before Ryden could respond, the bond pulsed sharply between them, an electric jolt that made them both flinch. Emilia released him with a snarl, stepping back as if the proximity had physically burned her. The air crackled with tension, neither willing to break the heavy silence that followed.

A sudden, unnatural sound broke through the quiet—a low, guttural growl that sent a shiver racing down Emilia’s spine. Both alphas froze, their senses immediately sharpening. The sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by the faint rustle of leaves.

Emilia’s hand went to the sword at her hip, her golden-amber eyes scanning the tree line. “What was that?” she murmured.

Ryden had already drawn his dagger, his ice-blue gaze fixed on the shadows beyond the riverbank. “Something’s watching us,” he said, his voice low.

As if on cue, a series of deep claw marks became visible along the nearest tree trunk, the bark shredded and oozing sap that glowed faintly under the moonlight. The luminous lunar flowers nearby had shriveled, their once-bright petals now dull and crumbling. The air carried a sour, acrid tang that stung Emilia’s nostrils.

The growl came again, louder this time, followed by a flash of movement in the shadows. Emilia braced herself, her heart pounding as the first creature lunged into view.

It was a werewolf, but not like any she had ever seen. Its form was twisted and primal, its fur matted and dark as midnight. Its eyes burned with a feral light, and its claws gleamed like obsidian. Saliva dripped from its gaping maw, and its movements were jerky and unnatural, as though it were being controlled by some invisible force.

Emilia barely had time to draw her blade before the creature lunged at her, its claws slicing through the air. She dodged to the side, slashing upward with precision honed through years of combat. Her blade struck true, cutting deep into the beast’s shoulder, but it hardly slowed.

Ryden was already moving, his dagger flashing in the moonlight as he engaged a second creature that emerged from the riverbank. His strikes were calculated and efficient, his movements precise. “They’re faster than normal!” he shouted over the chaos. “Aim for the joints!”

The bond pulsed again, sharper this time, as if responding to the battle. Emilia felt a sudden surge of energy—not her own but Ryden’s—coursing through her. Her muscles seemed to move with unnatural precision, and she found herself anticipating his movements even without seeing them. The realization was both exhilarating and unnerving.

A deafening howl pierced the night, cutting Ryden off mid-sentence. The sound was unlike anything either of them had ever heard, a chilling blend of rage and pain that sent a wave of nausea rolling through Emilia’s stomach. Whatever had created these creatures, it was still out there, watching, waiting.

“Retreat,” Emilia barked, her voice commanding despite the fear clawing at her chest. “We’re not prepared for this.”

Ryden hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Agreed. Fall back to the trees.”

They moved as one, their steps synchronized in a way that spoke to the bond’s influence. The feral werewolves snarled in frustration as their prey slipped through the shadows, retreating into the safety of the forest.

When they finally stopped, breathing hard and weapons slick with blood, Emilia turned to Ryden with a grim expression. “This is only the beginning,” she said, her voice low.

Ryden nodded, his face pale but resolute. “Then we need to figure out what’s coming—and fast.”

The river flowed on behind them, its glow now seeming far more ominous than serene.