Prologue
The young Prince stood before the window overlooking his private garden, his back to the advisors. A breathtaking riot of flowers filled his sight, their brilliance contrasting with the darkness that befell them. He let the sight steady him before he spoke.
“The other races?” he asked, his voice low but clear.
“Nothing,” Duke Albrecht replied, his tone grave, heavy with finality.
The Prince’s back straightened just a fraction. His eyes dimmed as he lowered his head, a single lock of hair falling over his brow. “Could they be in hiding?” he asked, almost as if hoping someone would confirm it.
Silence gripped the room for a long moment, the weight of it pressing against the walls.
“We cannot rule out the possibility,” the interior minister finally answered, but there was little hope in his tone, betraying what his words would not—he believed the others gone.
The Prince drew in a deep breath and turned slowly, his face a careful mask of confidence despite the blow that had been dealt his kingdom. “I see.” His voice rang firmer now, resolute. “We will proceed with the assumption that we are all that is left.”
His eyes met each of his cabinet members in turn. Some looked away; others gave him curt nods. When their gazes locked with his, he imagined they saw a young man forcing himself to be steel for them all. His shoulders set, his stance unyielding.
“How many of our enclaves survived?”
The interior minister opened the file before him, though the Prince knew the man had already committed every line to memory.
“Thirty-seven of the smaller ones survived long enough for the barriers to be erected,” he said, voice clipped.
The finance minister cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. “That number is… fragile, Your Highness. Many of these enclaves will not sustain themselves through winter without redistribution of resources.”
“And redistribution,” Duke Albrecht added darkly, “will spark resentment. Those who believe they have suffered more will not take kindly to sharing with those who fled faster.”
The Prince’s gaze hardened. “Then they will learn, your grace. If we are all that remains, division will kill us faster than famine.”
“Spoken like an idealist,” Albrecht muttered.
The Prince’s jaw tightened. “Better an idealist who keeps his people alive than a cynic who buries them.”
A tense silence fell again. The advisors exchanged wary glances.
Finally, the defence minister broke it. “Your Highness… the truth is we are surrounded by enemies who outnumber us. We must prepare for the worst.”
The Prince stepped closer to the table, the light from the window casting him in shadow. “Then let us prepare. But we do so as one kingdom, one people. From this day, survival is our law.”
His words lingered in the chamber, a quiet challenge to the doubt etched in the faces before him.
The interior minister’s fingers tapped the file in front of him, a nervous staccato. “The castle’s vaults and cellars are still stocked. Enough for our household and garrison for many seasons. We can use what we have to help our remaining people. But once redistribution begins…” He hesitated.
“…it will draw eyes,” the finance minister finished for him. He adjusted his spectacles again, the glass catching the light. “We can disguise some of the movements, but bulk transport cannot go unnoticed forever. The humans watch the ruins. They know something survived.”
The magic barrier that had been erected cast the perfect illusion, the castle lying in ruins, nothing more than ash and rubble. It looked like a grave, silent and forgotten. But within, the truth was far stranger. The castle and its village were still bustling unseen by the outside world.
The air shimmered faintly along the barrier, like heat rising from stone, and beyond that veil, nothing could breach their sanctuary. No blade, no spell, no army. Their world now existed slightly outside the main flow of time, unreachable.
No force from the outside could ever breach its walls again.
For the first time in centuries, they were untouchable. And yet, safety came with a bitter price. His people walked their halls with heavy steps, always aware of the destruction beyond the barrier. They had seen too much, lost too much, and the lesson seared into their hearts would never fade: trust no human. Their betrayal was the reason the kingdom bled.
The Prince often found himself staring at the shimmering veil, wondering if survival outside of time was victory or merely another kind of prison.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “So, you suggest we let our enclaves starve?”
“Not starve,” Duke Albrecht cut in, his voice carrying its usual iron. “Endure. Endure until we know the strength of our walls, until the humans’ suspicion fades. A lean season is survivable. Exposing ourselves is not.”
A sharp breath escaped the secretary of defence. Unlike the others, her voice was calm, level—too calm. “Do you think the barriers will hold?”
The Prince swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His father’s face, bloodied and resolute, flashed before him. “My father gave his life to ensure those barriers went up. They will hold.” His tone allowed no other alternative, and no one dared to contradict him.
But the silence that followed was thick with doubt.
The finance minister leaned forward. “Your Highness, even if the barriers hold, hunger will make our people reckless. Rumours will spread. Desperation breeds betrayal. And if even one of them slips to the humans...”
“Then we are all undone,” Albrecht finished grimly.
The Prince raised his chin, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “Then we will not let them grow desperate.”
The interior minister frowned. “How do you propose to feed thirty-seven enclaves without alerting the humans? Caravans would be too large. Messengers are too slow.”
“Smaller shipments,” the Prince said firmly. “Quiet ones. Carried by those who can travel unseen. Hunters. Scouts. People with reason to walk the old roads.”
“Runners,” the defence secretary murmured.
Albrecht scoffed. “Children’s tales. Runners are nothing but relics from the wars of old.”
The Prince’s eyes sharpened. “Relics kept my father’s line alive when your grandfather swore we were finished. Do not dismiss what you do not understand, your grace.”
Albrecht bristled but said nothing more.
The Prince’s voice softened, but steel threaded through it. “We will begin redistribution. Carefully. Quietly. If we must bleed the castle dry to keep our enclaves alive, then so be it. Better a starving kingdom than an empty one.”
His words rang with finality, echoing against the vaulted ceiling. None of the advisors spoke again, though unease sat heavy in their expressions.
The Prince turned back to the window, the riot of flowers beyond a cruel reminder of what abundance looked like and how swiftly it could vanish.
“We should talk about your coronation, sire.” The seneschal’s voice broke the silence, cracking it as if it were glass.
The young prince closed his eyes, his chest tightening at the title. Sire. A title that should have belonged to his father, spoken now as though the crown had already passed.
His father’s laughter, his steady hand upon his shoulder, the lessons spoken under starlight—all of it rose in his mind like a fresh wound reopened. Losing him was like carrying a knife lodged deep within his heart, twisting with every breath.
When he opened his eyes again, they gleamed with unshed grief, but his voice was steady. “We will have to hold it as soon as possible. Our people need to see more than a throne left empty. They need hope. Proof that despite our losses, we still stand.”
“Very good, sire.” The seneschal replied, his tone pleased.
The word echoed again in the chamber, settling heavily over the council. None of them spoke, but each knew the truth that clung to the air like smoke: their kingdom had been brought to its knees, their king slain, their numbers dwindled. The barrier around their home held firm, shielding them from human eyes and blades, but it was a fragile miracle, not a promise of eternity.
The prince’s gaze drifted to the village below the castle hill. Beyond it, the veil shimmered faintly, as though the world outside were nothing but a mirage. Safe, yes—but safety could not silence the restless stir in their blood, nor the memory of betrayal that had driven them here.
“We must endure,” the prince said softly, almost to himself. His hands clenched at his sides. “We must endure, and when the time comes, we will rise again.”
He turned to face his people, his face resolute. Around the table, his council bowed their heads, but not in mourning. A low sound rippled through the chamber—deep, resonant, unearthly. It was not speech, but something older, something that belonged to the marrow of their being. The air itself seemed to tremble with it.
The prince’s throat burned as he held it back, but he did not silence the others. His grief sharpened, his heart thundering as the call threatened to tear free from his chest. For theirs was no ordinary kingdom, no fragile line of men clinging to stone walls and titles.
They were the children of the moon. The wolves in the dark. A people who would never again bow to human treachery.
And when the howl finally rose, it shook the chamber with the sound of their truth.
They were werewolves, and their time was not yet ended.
