Chapter 107 – Blade of the Moon
The ridge loomed high above them, jagged and crumbling, the sky behind it smeared in the faint gold of dawn. Giselle’s breath came in sharp pulls, her lungs burning from the sprint, but she didn’t slow. Not now. Not when they were this close.
Rhea was scrambling backward up the rocky incline, blood trailing from her leg and one arm hanging uselessly at her side. Her face, once the picture of smug elegance, was twisted now—wild, desperate, *cornered*. Her eyes darted between Rowan and Giselle, calculating, searching for any opening… and finding none.
“You won’t win,” Rhea hissed, panting, as her back met the edge of the ridge. “You think she’s your Luna? She’ll bring your whole pack to ruin!”
Giselle didn’t respond. She stepped forward instead, her boots crunching on loose stone. She could feel Rowan at her side, the fury radiating off him like heat. But Giselle didn’t need him to speak for her.
“I’m not your scapegoat anymore, Rhea,” she said calmly. “You’ve run out of pawns.”
Rhea’s lips twisted, and her fingers twitched with the remnants of power. “No,” she gasped. “*Not yet.*” She thrust her good arm out, palm up, and screamed a word in a guttural language that scraped across Giselle’s mind like broken glass.
The air split open.
Dark magic poured from Rhea’s outstretched hand—a torrent of shimmering black flame laced with sickly green veins. It barreled toward them like a spear of corruption, the earth beneath it wilting, crumbling, cracking apart. The force of it made Giselle’s hair whip around her face, her skin crawling with unnatural cold.
Rowan shouted her name, moving to shield her.
But Giselle was faster.
She stepped forward, drawing the curved blade Avella had gifted her—a silver-edged sword etched with runes that pulsed faintly with power.
The moment the dark spell met the steel, it was as if the air itself bent.
The sword blazed bright, runes lighting like moonfire.
The impact rattled Giselle’s bones. The force pushed her back a step—but she held. The magic screamed against the edge of the blade, crackling violently as it split in two and exploded outward, carving twin scars into the rocks on either side of her.
Dust and debris rained down the ridge.
Silence fell.
Rhea stood frozen, her face ghost-white, eyes wide with disbelief.
“No…” she whispered. “That blade—what *are* you?”
Giselle exhaled slowly, her heart thundering in her chest. The sword was still humming in her grip, warm and alive. “I’m his mate,” she said simply. “And I’m not afraid of you.”
Rhea’s knees gave out.
She crumpled to the ground, the last of her strength leaving her. Blood soaked through the side of her dress, and her hand twitched once before going still.
Rowan was at Giselle’s side in an instant, his arm wrapping protectively around her waist. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” she said softly, though her heart still hadn’t slowed.
Rowan’s gaze flicked to the sword, then to Rhea’s crumpled form. “That blade…”
“She said it was forged with moonstone,” Giselle murmured, sliding it back into its sheath. “By a High Witch… long ago.”
Rowan looked at her with something close to awe.
And then he turned back toward the battlefield behind them.
“She’s done,” Giselle said quietly. “But this war isn’t over yet.”
“No,” Rowan agreed, lifting his head as more howls echoed in the distance. “But with you by my side… we’ll end it.”
Rhea lay crumpled near the base of the ridge, her chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, painting her already torn lips in crimson. But her eyes—those silver eyes that once gleamed with pride and ambition—still held a flicker of defiance.
Rowan moved closer, standing over her with the weight of everything she’d done hanging between them like a storm about to break.
“Why?” he demanded, voice low but sharp as a blade. “Why betray your people? Why side with monsters that would see us all wiped out?”
Rhea coughed, a bitter laugh escaping as she pushed herself up on one shaking elbow. “The weak,” she rasped, “always seek.. out… the powerful.”
Her gaze slid from Rowan to Giselle, and something cold passed through her expression—hatred, and something else… pity?
“You were never going to win,” she said hoarsely. “Not really. You think killing me will stop it? You’re too late. The hands of fate are already moving. You’re just ants beneath the tide.” She smiled, slow and cruel. “Even if you kill me now, it won’t stop what’s coming.”
Rowan’s jaw flexed, the tendons tight beneath his skin. His wolf stirred behind his eyes—gold flashing through the stormy green. “You won’t be around to see what comes next,” he growled.
But it wasn’t Rowan who stepped forward.
It was Giselle.
Her feet carried her almost of their own accord. Past Rowan’s side. Past the fractured remains of Rhea’s last spell. The moon-blessed sword was already in her hand, its weight familiar now, comforting even. The runes along the blade shimmered faintly in the morning light, responding to her rising purpose.
Rhea’s expression faltered.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, eyes flicking to Rowan. “He should be the one to—”
“He would,” Giselle cut in, her voice steady, calm—unshakable. “But this isn’t about vengeance. This is about ending your madness before it takes more lives.”
Giselle looked down at the woman who had once smiled beside her at ceremonial feasts. Who had once brushed against Rowan’s arm and called it love. Who had sold them all for a dream of power.
“You tried to destroy him,” she whispered. “You tried to destroy us. You nearly did.”
Rhea bared her teeth in one last flash of spite. “And yet, I still see fear in your eyes.”
Giselle’s eyes didn’t waver. “No. You see truth.”
She raised the sword.
And with a single, clean motion—one Avella had taught her to perfect in silence and patience—Giselle brought it down.
A silver arc shimmered through the air, and then Rhea slumped, still and silent at last.
For a long moment, no one moved.
The wind stirred the grass. Ash from earlier fires drifted past like forgotten snow. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk screamed into the rising sun.
Giselle slowly exhaled and stepped back.
Rowan reached for her, his hand steady and warm on the back of her neck as he pulled her into him, shielding her from the weight of what she had just done.
“She won’t hurt anyone else,” she murmured against his chest.
“No,” he said, his voice low and sure. “You ended it.”
But deep in Giselle’s bones, something still twisted—unspoken, unseen.
Rhea’s words echoed like a curse: The hands of fate are already moving.
And though the traitor was gone, Giselle had the feeling that her death wasn’t the end.
It was only the beginning.
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