Nyssa raises her hands, and black flame bursts from her palms. Izel mirrors her, witchfire glowing green. The crowd recoils, shouts breaking out, but Thane only watches, pleased.
I let go of restraint. Nyx roars in my mind, wild and eager,‘It’s time.’
My bones crack, reshaping rapidly. My vision sharpens, silver bleeding into everything. My skin ripples, fur erupting from the surface—pale as moonlight, veined with silver fire.
Gasps rise.
“A High Luna?” someone whispers.
Izel stumbles back. “Impossible—”
I lunge.
Our bodies collide midair—flame against fur, witchfire against silver. The impact shakes the ground. Her claws slice through my flank, and pain bursts bright and sharp. Nyx howls through me, the sound echoing through the clearing, wild and strong.
I slam her to the ground, jaws clamping around her shoulder. She shrieks, the witchfire flaring between us, scorching fur, flesh, air. Sparks rain down like falling stars.
“Yield!” I snarl through Nyx’s throat, our voices doubled—one human, one wolf, both divine.
“Never!” Izel screams. She twists, eyes blazing, summoning a pillar of green flame that engulfs us both.
I charge through it. Fire licks my fur, but cannot burn me. The silver veins across my coat pulse brighter—moonlight drawn to fury. I leap, crashing down with enough force to crack the marble beneath her.
Izel gasps, clawing at the ground, witchfire guttering out. I pin her throat beneath my paw.
“Yield,” I say again, trembling with rage.
I will not kill her. Not yet. Death will be a mercy.
Her gaze flickers from defiance to disbelief. She tries to speak, but no sound comes. The fire in her palms dies to ash.
For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. Then she collapses, chest heaving, eyes rolling back.
Slowly, I step away. My body reshapes—bone, fur, skin—and I’m standing again, clothed and breathless, moonlight washing over my shoulders. The silver glow still threads faintly across my arms like veins of light.
I look down at her. “It’s over, Izel. You’ve lost.”
The words ring across the silent arena.
Izel stirs faintly, whispering something I can’t hear. Then Esme’s hesitant voice cuts through the stillness: “Freya Vale-Thorne is victorious.”
Cheers rise, but I barely hear them, my attention shifting when I see Nyssa step forward. “No,” she says softly.
She lifts her hand.
The sky splits.
A ring of shadow spirals outward from her palm, sweeping through the arena. Wolves collapse, choking, their eyes turning black. Fire leaps from brazier to brazier, devouring cloth, wood,flesh. Esme drops to her knees, followed by another elder from Ravencourt.
Everything is chaos. I gasp in shock, my concerned gaze flicking to my children, Ivy and Finn. Tamsin protects them, forming a human cover. Then I look at Rowan, who’s shielding himself using a dagger that keeps the shadowy fire at bay.
“Mother, stop—” Izel gasps.
Nyssa ignores her. “You wanted to see power, Thane? Here it is.”
Thane backs away, face pale. “You were meant to control her,” he hisses to the other elders.
Nyssa laughs, high and manic. “Control? You should have learned—witches don’t kneel to wolves.”
