The old women Warning
She cut through a different garden path—one lined with older statues and thorny vines. She just wanted to go back. To shut her door. To breathe.
But someone was already there.
An old woman. Dressed like one of the estate's oldest staff—long gray dress, lace collar, withered hands pruning thorn roses by moonlight.
Emma would've passed her if not for the way the woman stopped... like she'd been waiting.
"You've stepped where you shouldn't have," the woman rasped without turning. "And touched what should have stayed asleep."
Emma froze.
"What are you talking about?"
The women slowly looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were milky white. Sightless—but not empty.
"Not all wolves obey the Alpha," she whispered. "Some were buried for a reason. Some... were locked away."
Emma's breath caught.
The black door.
The growl.
The claw marks that appeared on her skin without touch.
"Who are you?" she asked.
But the woman had already turned back to her roses.
Emma took a step forward—and blinked.
She was gone.
Only the roses remained, swaying gently where no wind had passed.
She sees around but didn't find anyone and now this is getting really complicated. She didn't understand anything. First that black door, wolves, and then these women. What does she mean? And with this, Emma started moving faster towards her room.
The Return to Her Room
Emma's feet suddenly started echoing against the cold stone as she left the garden with a lot going in her mind.
Everything starts flooding like dark memories. Celeste's poison still lingered in her ears. That slap-that-never-landed on her face, but her peculiar comments were no less than slaps burned like a warning, but Emma wore it like perfume—sharp, undeniable, and unforgettable.
She stepped inside the mansion.
The silence swallowed her.
Too quiet.
Even the shadows felt like they were holding their breath.
The black door didn't growl this time.
But she felt it—coiled behind that wood, watching, waiting. Like it knew she'd spoken to something that shouldn't answer back.
Her hand ghosted over her neck.
The claw marks were gone.
No scars. No pain.
But her skin still hummed.
Her room welcomed her with cold. The fire had long since died. The window was cracked open—she hadn't left it that way. A mirror had shifted an inch off-center, no longer aligned with the frame.
She paused.
Not fear—instinct. Primal. Feral.
On the pillow, something waited.
A cream envelope. No wax seal. No name.
She opened it.
One line. Scrawled in black ink.
"You were not meant to wake them."
The paper smelled like petrichor and ash.
Emma didn't think that sleep will come that night. But then strange, phenomenon happens As soon as she hit the bed it felt like her conciseness started drifting way like she lift off some weight. But it was just a start to another thing.
Dreams & Shadows
The dream started bleeding in like fog.
A forest with no leaves. Trees twisted into claws. The ground pulsed, breathing. A dozen wolves circled her—snarling, pacing.
But they never attacked.
Their eyes glowed gold. And they wept.
A voice whispered from the branches, "The moon remembers what the pack forgets."
She turned to look—and saw nothing but endless night.
She woke in sweat. The room was cold.
Her mirror caught her gaze, fractured in a strange way.
And in it—behind her—stood a woman in a bone-white cloak.
Smiling.
No words.
Just eyes.
Emma turned around fast.
Empty room.
She didn't sleep after that. And now sleeping felt like luxury everything seems strange like they want to uncover all secrets. So now she went towards the window and sat on the chair near it as the cold wind touched her face some old memories hitted her and she tries to link them with todays events.
And with that again sleep engulf her in it grasp. And then A knock woke her up.
Morning in the Lion's Den
A voice said,"Luna are you up? Everyone is waiting for you."
Emma said in low voice, "I will be downstairs soon."
The voice again said, "Luna do you need any help?"
Emma gently denied and asked the person to go back. And She did as she was asked to do.
Soon Emma dressed in deep green.
Not black, not white, neither mourning, nor purity.
Power. Wealth. Command. A queen declaring war.
Zane arrived like a shadow outside her door. He didn't ask if she was ready.
Because she already was.
Downstairs, the breakfast hall buzzed with tension. Staff paused mid-motion when she entered. Some dipped their heads respectfully.
Others looked away.
Something had shifted.
She walked through it all like she wore a crown no one could see—but everyone felt.
At the far end of the hall, Celeste stood by the bay windows—porcelain in pale rose lips like knives.
"Enjoyed your garden stroll?" she asked, voice too sweet. "Some things buried shouldn't be touched."
Emma poured herself tea.
Sipped slowly.
Then smiled. "Then I guess they shouldn't have been buried alive."
Celeste's smile cracked.
Just slightly.
Her jaw clenched.
Emma stirred her tea like she wasn't standing on a battlefield made of glances and veiled venom.
And walked away like a goddess, stepping off the pyre. But she didn't find Sebastian. Soon Zane came to her side and told something in her ear slowly and She left the room with him gracefully.
The Council's Gathering Before the Trial
The council chamber was different this time.
Heavier.
Dark green tapestries hung like mourning flags. The air smelled of incense and old wolf blood. Ancient chants hummed through the floor.
Preparation for sacrifice.
Blessing for survival.
Emma stood in the center, surrounded by a circle of elders and councilmen. Their words weren't for her.
They were for the spirits watching.
One elder placed a ceremonial blade in her hands—old, obsidian-forged. Runes glinted on the hilt.
Her mother's surname was engraved into the metal.
She looked up sharply.
No one explained.
She didn't ask.
Whispers fluttered through the chamber like crows.
"Why that blade?"
"Does she even know what it means?"
"They'll eat her alive."
Elder Alric approached with a gravitas that made the room still.
"The Cerberus Grounds strip away all names. If you die, your story ends with a footnote. If you survive... maybe you earn it."
Emma held the blade high.
"I don't need your permission to write history."
Silence. Sharp. Unmovable.
Sebastian, watching from the high stair, didn't speak.
But his eyes— Burned like frostbite. He didn't say a word to her since the last meeting and finally the ceremony ended and everyone watched it with wispers high and low. Every eyes hold questions but no one dares to say a word. Now everyone is waiting for the final play when Emma will enter the ground.
The Preparation Room – The Final Hour
A side chamber.
Dimly lit.
Stone walls etched with sigils long since forgotten.
She was alone—told to prepare.
The "trial garments" laid on the bench were almost symbolic. Black linen. Barely armored. Thin enough to remind her—this wasn't about defense.
It was about surrender. Or survival.
She stripped out of her emerald suit. Folded it carefully.
Dressed slowly, ritualistically.
And just as she fastened the final strap— The black door growled.
But she wasn't even near it.
It echoed in her skull. A vibration, not sound.
Then—a whisper.
Not through her ears.
Inside her bones. "You will be seen. You will be claimed."
Pain lanced through her spine. She dropped to her knees.
Breath ragged.
Hands trembling.
But she didn't cry out.
Didn't break.
She waited it out.
Waited until her pulse slowed.
Until her hands steadied.
And then she stood.
Looked at the blade.
Smirked. "I don't break," she said. "I bury."
She turned toward the exit—
And the black door?
This time, it didn't growl.
It laughed.