The Prophecy's Reject

Zylia's POV

The forest seemed endless.

We had been walking miles and miles and it didn't look like the other was going to end soon.

Branches clawed at my hair as I followed Mason deeper into the dark. His steps were silent, confident, like the night knew him. Mine weren't. Every twig I broke sounded like an apology.

The packlands were long behind me now. Each breath I took out here tasted like betrayal, sharp and cold.

"Keep up," Mason muttered without looking back.

"I'm trying," I said, clutching the strap of my bag tighter.

"Then try harder."

I bit my tongue. He wasn't cruel, just blunt, a man made of rough edges and solitude.

"Can you slow down a bit," my feet dragged as I tried to catch my breath.

Mason turned slowly, his chest heaving out of frustration.

"This is the slowest I can walk Zylia. You chose to follow me."

"Just...please," I bent slightly, my palms resting on my knees.

"Five minutes, Zylia. Five minutes." He said.

"Thank you," I said, resting my back on a tree.

He didn't budge. He stood alert like he was ready to go to war.

"Rest a little." I said, tapping a spot beside me.

"Your time's up." He growled.

I could've sworn I didn't use a second out of the time he gave me.

We climbed over a fallen tree, and I stumbled when my boot caught on a root. Mason reached out instinctively, steadying me by the arm. His grip was firm, warm, grounding. Then, almost too quickly, he let go.

"Watch where you're going," he said, voice softer than before.

"I said I'm trying," I mumbled.

A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. "You talk too much for someone who's scared."

"I'm not scared."

He raised a brow. "Sure."

We walked until the trees thinned into a clearing lit by pale moonlight. Shapes moved in the shadows, men and women with hard eyes and torn clothes. Rogues.

The air changed, heavy with smoke, blood, and something feral. My wolf shrank inside me.

Mason stopped at the edge of the clearing. "Welcome to nowhere," he said.

Dozens of gazes turned our way. Conversations fell silent. The camp smelled of wet fur, cheap whiskey, and desperation.

"Who's the stray?" a voice called from near the fire.

Mason didn't answer.

"She's pack," another sneered. "You bringin' us Silverclaw's trash now, Mason?"

My throat went dry.

"She's with me," Mason said simply. His tone was enough to make most of them look away.

"Didn't know you were babysitting now," someone muttered.

Mason shot him a glare sharp enough to silence him. "Didn't ask what you knew."

He turned back to me. "You can rest there." He pointed to a half-collapsed tent near the dying fire.

I hesitated. "And you?"

"I've got my own corner of hell." He walked off before I could say thank you.

The tent smelled of smoke and rain-soaked fabric. I dropped my bag inside and sat on the cold ground, hugging my knees. The fabric was torn enough to let in threads of moonlight.

Outside, laughter broke the night, rough, dangerous. Someone shouted, then a thud, a snarl.

This was nothing like the packlands. There were no rules here, no Luna to keep order. Just survival.

I pressed my forehead against my arms and tried not to cry.

You wanted to belong.

I reminded myself. And now, no one wants you.

***

I don't know when sleep took me.

But when I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the tent anymore.

Silver light surrounded me, liquid and endless. The air shimmered like water, and somewhere in the distance, a low hum rose,  a melody that felt older than time.

I turned, heart pounding. The forest was gone. So was the pain.

A woman stood before me, her hair flowing like moonlight, her eyes deep and endless.

The Moon Goddess.

Her voice was soft, layered, like many voices speaking through one. "Child of flame," she whispered. "Not all prophecies speak truth. Some speak choice."

My mouth parted. "I don't... I don't understand, Moon Goddess."

"You will." She reached out, her touch brushing my cheek. Warm. Real. "You were born to balance light and dark. To choose what others fear to face."

Then the world erupted.

Silver fire burst around me, alive, whispering, dancing at the rhythm of my breath. I raised my hands and the flames followed like they knew my soul.

"Why me?" I asked, voice breaking.

Her eyes glowed brighter. "Because you were never meant to be weak."

And then she vanished.

I woke with a gasp.

The tent was cold again, the night pressing in. My palms glowed faintly, silver threads flickering across my skin before fading. I stared, shaking.

It had to be a dream. It had to be.

Outside, voices rose, tense, hushed.

"Mason, you'd better come see this!" someone shouted.

I froze, crawling toward the tent flap. Through the gap, I saw the rogues gathered near the edge of camp. Mason stood among them, looking down at something on the ground, something that made even him go still.

The moonlight caught the glint of it.

A strange sigil.

My heart stopped....

What was that?