POV: Soraya
Sleep does not come easily in Zehrael.
Not anymore. Not since Raevan arrived. Not since the past began clawing at the walls of the life I built. Tonight, exhaustion drags me under—but peace does not follow.
Instead, the visions strike.
The first flash hits like lightning—a great tide of warriors crossing blood-red dunes, banners of Saren snapping in the wind, Zarek at the front, dressed in obsidian armor etched with runes I’ve never seen before.
His smile is cold. His sword drips with light.
A second vision burns immediately after—
Ashra’s fortress, flames crawling up its sandstone walls, howls and screams echoing through the night. Wolves fighting wolves. Blood staining the carved sigils beneath their feet.
Kaide stands at the gates, face scraped, eyes wild.
Vienne tries to shield pups behind her.
Tazir is shouting orders, blades drawn.
And Raevan—Raevan’s dread-wolf form stands alone on the ramparts, a beast of shadow and fury, claws dripping, eyes glowing with murderous intent.
Then the last piece hits—my mother. Standing in a soft blue haze. Lysara.
Her voice is wind and memory:
“The desert ends in fire if you do not rise.”
I jolt awake with a strangled gasp, sweat soaking my neck, breath shaking. The moonstone lanterns flicker around the room, responding to the storm inside me.
Baltimus sits immediately upright beside me.
He was awake. He knew.
“Soraya?” His hand finds my back. “Another one?”
I nod, unable to speak at first. My pulse hammers. My wolf paces inside my chest with a panic that feels ancient and feral. Baltimus waits—patient, steady, grounding—until I can breathe. Only then do I whisper:
“Zarek is coming.”
Baltimus stiffens. “Tell me everything.”
I close my eyes and try to gather the fragments. The visions feel like scattered bones; I have to piece them together carefully.
“I saw his army,” I begin quietly. “More than before. Twice as large. Twice as organized. And his armor… there were runes I didn’t recognize.”
“The seers of Saren,” Baltimus mutters darkly. “He’s working with forbidden magic now.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “And then I saw Ashra.”
His expression tightens, gaze lowering. He knows what Ashra means to me. He knows who it means.
“They were losing,” I say. “Overwhelmed. And Raevan—he…”
Baltimus finishes for me, voice soft but heavy: “You saw him in dread-wolf form?”
I nod. “He was alone. Cornered. Fighting everything and everyone.”
Baltimus exhales slowly, running a hand over his face. “He is a powerful Alpha, but he rules from grief now, not reason. That makes him dangerous—to himself and to his people.”
I don’t argue. He’s right. I’ve seen the change in Raevan with my own eyes.
The coldness, the brutality, the numbness beneath every breath he takes.
But seeing him fall in a vision—seeing Ashra burn—it shakes me in ways I can’t hide.
Baltimus notices.
Of course he does. He always does.
“You care for him.”
Not a question. A fact. A truth I can’t deny.
“Yes,” I whisper. “But that doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”
Silence fills the room, thick as desert heat before a storm.
Finally, Baltimus shifts from the bed, walking toward the shelves of ancient Zehrael scrolls. His movements are calm but deliberate, the way they always are when he is thinking strategically rather than emotionally.
He pulls out a large roll of parchment, spreads it across the table, and gestures for me to join him.
“We need to understand Zarek’s position,” he says. “And what he gains if he reaches you.”
I sit beside him.
He lights a rune-stone to illuminate the map.
“Saren has been unstable for years,” he begins. “Zarek’s lack of an heir makes him desperate. Your powers—your bloodline—are the answer he thinks he deserves.”
I swallow. “He believes Zehrael magic belongs to him.”
Baltimus nods gravely. “He will not stop unless he has you.”
I stare at the map, eyes tracing the long stretch of dunes between Saren and Ashra, the border where war is always just one spark away.
“And Ashra?” I ask. “How do they stand?”
Baltimus sighs. “Raevan’s rule lacks balance now. He pushes his people with force, not leadership. Some follow him out of loyalty. Others… out of fear.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I knew he struggled, but hearing it laid out like this—it’s different. Worse.
Baltimus continues, “If Zarek attacks, Ashra will break before they unite. Their internal wounds run too deep.”
“And I’m the reason those wounds exist,” I whisper.
He immediately turns toward me, expression firm.
“You are not responsible for the choices of men who seek to own you.”
I look down at my hands. They glow faintly. My magic is restless tonight.
“And the humans?” I ask quietly. “The ones who attacked me before?”
“Human kingdoms sense the imbalance,” Baltimus replies. “They watch the wolves, waiting for weakness. If Saren and Ashra fall into war, humans may rise to claim territory.”
“So Zarek isn’t the only threat,” I murmur.
“No,” he confirms. “Far from it.”
I inhale shakily. “Then what do we do?”
Baltimus’s gaze softens. He places a hand over mine.
“We prepare,” he says. “We guard Zehrael, strengthen our defenses, and monitor every movement beyond our borders. And you—”
His thumb brushes my palm. Gentle. Grounding.
“You must stay close. The visions appearing now means your power is reaching a higher level. It also means danger is approaching faster.”
I nod slowly. I trust him. He saved me. He sheltered me. He gave me a place when I had none.
Even if my heart is torn, my loyalty to him is real.
Baltimus rolls the map back up and grips my shoulders gently. “Soraya, listen to me. Zarek wants you. Saren wants power. Ashra is unstable. War is coming. But you are not alone. You have me. You have Zehrael. And whatever happens… we face it together.”
The room feels warmer. Safer. Steadier.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Baltimus nods. “Rest if you can. Tomorrow we meet with the Zehrael council. We must decide our next steps carefully.”
I lie back down eventually, but sleep doesn’t return easily.
Because the visions weren’t just warnings. They were promises. I stand at the center of every storm.