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The dawn's earliest light blazed pale gold over the shattered spires of the Grey Mountains as the caravan descended the final ridge.

The deliberate ring of each horse's hooves echoed down the rocky road, and Blackwood's twin-moon crest pennon streamed behind the lead wagon in respectful tribute to Frigg's honor.

Tasha rode at the lead, her mare's breath foggy in the chill, shreds of the Eclipse blade wrapped around her waist like unspoken promises.

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First Glimpse of Home

Tasha drew a deep breath as they crested the rise and looked down into Nocturnis's ancestral valley.

Below, there lay the ancient city—half destroyed in wars of old, half resurrected by the unceasing toil of Nocturnis's allied witches and lycans.

Black-stone walls, broken and moss-covered in days of yore, were repaired in places with new gray stone, and moonstone lanterns shone softly along the walls, as if welcoming an old friend.

"I never imagined it would be like this," Tasha admitted, her voice little more than a whisper. The sight of home both reassured and frightened her. This was where they would encounter Damon's final host; this is where fate and heritage would converge.

Cass reined his mare to her side. "It's more than stones and lanterns. It's hope—and this evening we grasp that hope or we allow it to slip away."

Below them, wagon masters guided carts through the entrance gate, where Kylorn wolf sentinels—broad-shouldered lycans born and raised in these mountains—stood guard watchfully. Their eyes, ranging from deep amber to silvery gray, looked upon the strangers with polite caution.

Tasha's heart tightened. She remembered the day she and Mina had trained beneath this sky—innocent, unaware of the war to come. Now, every moment was infused with the feeling of an anticipated conclusion.

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Welcomed by Suspicious Gaze

At the yawning archway of the outer gate, a coven of witches in black robe–cloak stepped out, led by an elder whose silver hair glistened like starlight. She made a respectful bow.

"Welcome home, Luna," the elder declared, voice old but strong. "We have held these walls against Damon's darkness for weeks. Your coming is our dawn.".

Blackwood slipped off and inside. "We stand with you," he said, opening his arms. "Nocturnis stands."

Cass followed hard behind him, offering his hand to a Kylorn captain by the name of Thorne—a great wolf-warrior whose fur glistened with dew. Thorne clasped it in a paw-like handshake. "Fear howls through the passes," Thorne snarled. "But your return—your sword—gives us renewed strength.".

Tasha walked up to them and managed a wan smile. "We march as one now. Damon's evil will find no refuge here."

Behind them, the wagons creaked through the gate, supplies unloaded onto wagons and into warehouses. The air hummed with taut relief—the hope of allies returned mingled with dread of an expected attack.

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Reforging the Blade

Within the grand hall of Nocturnis, vaulted ceilings soared above, held aloft by columns inscribed with pack generations of history: hunts and wars and alliances.

And at its center, the ancient forge—dark since Frigg's leaving, now aglow for one final task.

Witches chanted in a ring of silver-robed elders, their incantations weaving protective wards as sparks flared to life beneath the bellows.

Cass and Blackwood stacked logs on the fire, its flame fluctuating between orange and clean white as it burned light and darkness into the hearth. Close by, a massive anvil rested ready, its face weathered by centuries of sword-making.

Tasha and Mina entered, carrying a wooden tray. On top of it lay the fragments of the shattered blade—glittering shards of light embedded in pitted obsidian. All of the pieces softly glowed, humming with suppressed magic.

Mina placed the shards in a spiral design on the anvil's face. "In this configuration," she breathed, "the shards are similar to the double serpents. Our kind trapped the darkness in this configuration—now we undo the breakage.".

Julia stepped forward, dispersing a pinch of raw crystal into the forge and causing the flames to roar. "By Frigg's law," she recited, "let light and shadow be combined in one."

Cass picked up a set of tongs to hold the first shard, and he inserted it into the burning core.

The metal hissed and flared in welcome, taking the piece home to wholeness.

Wave after wave of hammering came—each shard merging into the next, each strike from Blackwood's hammer uniting the disparate pieces.

Tasha watched the sword form: one unbroken blade shining silver luminescence and onyx undertones. The pommel featured Frigg's twin-moon sigil, now raised and polished in relief.

With the final blow, Blackwood held the sword up, its balance exact. "Behold the Eclipse Blade reborn," he declared, voice echoing in the hall. "May it bind the darkness—and fulfill our legacy."

Tasha stepped forward to grasp the hilt. A stream of power flowed from the metal into her palm, up through her arm, and into her heart. She was whole—and ready.

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Healing the Wounded

As the sword cooled, Mina led a procession to the infirmary that was attached to the keep.

Benches lined dozens up the hallway—sword-wounded, claw-wounded, and corrupted magic-wounded.

Mina's hands emitted a gentle lavender light as she knelt beside a young witch whose scorched clothing and singed hair spoke of a battle with darkness.

"There's life in you," Mina panted. She placed palm to brow, muttering a gentle charm that drew the blackness from the wound. The flesh closed up, the pain faded, and the witch took a breath of relief.

In the nearby alcove, a Kylorn wolf whose leg developed black runic burns was whimpering. Two lycan healers had declared his leg beyond help—until Mina stepped in. She enveloped her aura with Frigg's benediction, and the dead tissue receded like the tide, leaving pale scars.

Tasha came into the infirmary, a bowl of enchanted water in her arms. She pressed cups forward to the recuperating. "Drink—this will soothe your hands before fight." Her soothing words—filled with Luna's empathy—illuminated the room's gloom.

Cass and Julia helped push heavy stretchers as Blackwood conferred with healers in hasty whispers. The wails and moans of relief blended into a wave of toughness: broken bodies reshaped whole.

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A Rift Among Allies

At night, the war room in the west tower keep echoed with boots stamping and hushed consultations. Lanterns gave trembling light to walls draped in maps of the valley and beyond, inscribed with troop movements and lines of supply.

Blackwood stood, booming: "The traitor forces concentrate in the lowlands. They march on Nocturnis at dawn three nights hence. We have no option—they will besiege the walls you've brought back to life."

A witch elder, silver runes fringing the hem of her tunic, spoke low, her voice quivering. "Alpha, respectfully, our forces are lean. Some of our friends question whether to go all–out—risk their own homelands."

Cass pounded her hand on the table. "Then they are not as willing as we! We cut down treason now or halfheartedly fight later."

A rumble of assent—and dissent—spread among the gathered. Tasha stepped to the center, pounding heart but resolute voice.

"We saved Nocturnis before. We can do it again—if we stand together. Damon's darkness thrives on division. Tonight, we choose unity or succumb to the shadows."

Mina stepped with her. "The prophecy not only binds darkness—it binds us to one another. Light and darkness, wolf and witch, human and lycan. We forge our own fate."

The company grew quiet, each mind grasping for truth and fear. Blackwood at last broke the silence: "At first light, we gather all blade and all spell. To the front, to walls, and beyond. We go under one banner—Nocturnis reborn."

A cheer rose, measured by gravitas. The breach was mended—if only for the night.

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Night Vigil its muzzle foamed with wispy strands of smoke.

Cass and Rylan charged, swords aloft. Tasha leaped forward, lifting the Eclipse Blade. Swinging, bits of light and darkness combined in a burst of glory that crashed into the shape of the wraith. It disintegrated in purple flame, leaving nothing but a gasp of agony.

But as it faded, a final scream drifted on the wind—half wolf, half human:

"The cycle begins anew..."

Tasha's heart constricted. The omen was clear: the battle for Nocturnis would be only the beginning.

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As the first rosy fingers of dawn reached the battlements, Tasha climbed the western turret.

Below, the assembled troops readied arms and checks on wards.

Lances glinted in the courtyard; spellcasters spoke final incantations.

The foe banners—twinned serpents on dark fields—blazed at the valley's edge like war promises afar.

Tasha unsheathed the Eclipse Blade, its metal singing in the light of dawn. She laid it against her lips and spoke a promise forged from blood and sacrifice:

"For the ones I love, for the legacy that's mine, I'll face the darkness—until light and shadow walk as one."

Her reflection shone in the surface of the blade—no more doubt-torn girl of the human world, but the Luna reborn in sacrifice, in courage, and hope.

Behind her, Blackwood shouted out loud:

"Guard the walls! We march at first light!"

The trumpets blew—brass calls ringing through the icy air. The pack pushed forward, forming up behind the gates, hearts hardened against the tide to come.

As they advanced, a dim echo on the wind—an unseen herald repeating the dead specter's last words:

"The cycle starts anew..."

And in the spoken phrase, every warrior felt the tremor of the turning wheel of fate.

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