Page 28 of Shifting Hearts

FOURTEEN

Raven

T he air tastes like lightning.

Two lines face each other across the frozen field—Forsaken to my sides, Brotherhood standing before me. The ground between us is sacred and cursed, soaked in the blood of old wars. No one speaks. No one breathes.

Then the shifting begins.

The Forsaken shift around me, bones snapping, magic crackling. Wolves with eyes like embers. Bears that move like earthquakes. Wings slicing the sky.

It starts with a growl; low, guttural, vibrating through the bones of the mountain. A Forsaken wolf drops to all fours, fur erupting, eyes blazing. A bear follows, roaring as his spine twists, claws bursting from his knuckles. Wings unfurl. Fangs gleam. The Forsaken become beasts of legend.

The Brotherhood stands across the field, rigid and righteous, their blades gleaming with borrowed power, but they answer to the call.

Their second-in-command steps forward, his mark flaring white-hot.

He shifts mid-stride as his body elongates, limbs contort, and suddenly he’s a massive white lion, mane crackling with Alpha magic.

Behind him, his soldiers shift in unison; wolves, panthers, hawks, serpents. Controlled. Precise. Terrifying.

The earth groans beneath us.

Kieran stands beside me, still in human form, his mark pulsing like a heartbeat. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I feel the dragon inside him coiled tight, waiting.

I shut my eyes, and the protection spell bursts from me, a dome of shimmering force that wraps around the Forsaken. Their marks flare in response. The Brotherhood’s magic slams against it and shatters.

I open my eyes.

The first charge comes from the Brotherhood, a wall of fur, fang, and fury.

The Forsaken meet them head-on.

Claws tear through flesh. Fangs sink into throats. Blood sprays across the snow. A hawk shifter dives, talons ripping through a bear’s shoulder. A serpent coils around a wolf, bones snapping like twigs.

Then Kieran leaps forward, and the world stops.

His mark flares, and the shift takes him. Not like the others. His body doesn’t break—it ascends. Scales ripple across his skin, black as void, edged in molten gold. His wings unfurl, massive and ancient, casting shadows that stretch across the battlefield. His roar splits the sky.

He is a dragon.

Not a beast. Not a monster.

A god.

And I can’t look away.

His eyes find mine, and for a heartbeat, the war fades. There’s only him. His power, his beauty. He belongs to me.

I run into the chaos, and my blade swings. My power surges as I siphon Alpha energy from the enemies, draining their strength, feeding it into the earth beneath us. I cast protection over my own, shielding them from death, from curses, from fate itself.

Through it all, Kieran flies overhead, fire raining from his jaws, wings slicing through the air. A god of war made flesh.

This isn’t a battle.

It’s a reckoning.

I didn’t know blood could sing, but it does now. Every scream, every clash of steel, every body hitting the ground in a wet, final thud. It’s music. Terrible, beautiful music.

My blade trills through the air, slicing through flesh, catching bone. Blood sprays across my face, warm and metallic. I don’t flinch. I welcome it. A wolf lunges, and my magic surges, Alpha energy thick and choking.

I drink it.

It rips from his body, screaming into mine. He collapses, twitching, and I step over him.

Another Forsaken screams, pinned, dying. I shut my eyes.

The protection spell erupts from me like a pulse of light. It slams into the battlefield, shielding my people, deflecting blades, unraveling curses. The Brotherhood stumbles, their magic failing.

I open my eyes, and I become wrath.

I carve through them, ribs split, tendons snap, skulls crack. I feel their blood on my hands, their fear in my wake. I am the prophecy. I am vengeance. I am the girl they tried to break, now wielding the power they feared.

I smell them before I see them.

Wet fur. Ash. The stench of old betrayal.

The wolf pack that cast me out; my blood, my tormentors, emerges from the smoke like ghosts. Their eyes gleam with hunger. Not for war, but for me.

Then there’s their leader, Aldric.

He walks like he owns the battlefield. Like he owns me .

His voice cuts through the chaos.

“Raven. Come quietly. You were always meant to be mine.”

I laugh, sharp and broken. The blood on my blade drips onto the frozen earth as I take a step forward, and the ground shivers.

“You rejected me,” I sneer. “You left me to rot.”

He smiles. “And now you’re powerful. I’ll forgive your tantrum. Come.”

The magic inside me screams .

I reach for it. Not the clean, protective spell I cast before. No. This is older. Deeper. The kind of power buried in bone and shadow, the kind that demands a price.

I draw the ritual blade from my belt. It’s carved from obsidian, etched with runes I swore last night I’d never use once I read the ancient prophecy, but desperate times and all that. I slice my palm. Blood spills, thick and black with magic. I smear it across my chest, my throat, my eyes.

The ritual begins.

The battlefield twists.

The air turns heavy. The ground cracks. Spirits rise; not gentle ones, but wraiths of vengeance, bound to my blood. They scream as they descend on the wolves, tearing flesh, snapping limbs. Aldric’s pack howls, their bodies shredded by spectral claws.

I feel it, my soul unraveling. The magic is too much. Too dark. It wants to consume me.

Aldric charges through the carnage, eyes wild, blade raised.

“You belong to me!” he screams.

I feel the ritual clawing at me.

The blood I spilled to summon the wraiths is still wet on my skin, but it’s not mine anymore. It belongs to something older, something hungry. The spirits I called don’t obey—they devour. They tear through Aldric’s wolves, shrieking with joy, ripping flesh from bone, dragging souls into the dark.

And I feel it.

The pull.

The temptation.

The power .

Aldric is still alive, crawling through the gore, eyes locked on me with madness and lust. He reaches for me, mouth twisted into a snarl.

“You were meant for me.”

I raise my hand to end him. The magic surges, black and wild, ready to burn him from existence.

But it doesn’t stop there.

It wants more. It wants everything. It wants me.

I feel my soul unraveling, threads snapping one by one. My vision blurs. My heartbeat slows. The battlefield fades into shadow.

Then I feel it.

A pulse.

A mark.

Kieran’s mark.

The binding spell he cast—blood to blood, soul to soul—ignites across my skin. It burns through the darkness, a tether of light, fire, and love. I feel him before I see him.

He crashes through the chaos, dragon-form shedding flame and fury then shifts mid-stride, human again, radiant and bloodied, eyes locked on mine.

“Raven, Mo Lasair ,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in silk. “Come back.”

I can’t speak, can’t move. The magic is choking me.

He reaches me, grabs my face in both hands, and presses his forehead to mine.

“You’re not theirs, you’re not this. You’re mine.”

The mark flares.

The ritual shatters .

The spirits scream and vanish as the blood on my skin turns to ash. The darkness recoils, howling, and I collapse into him, sobbing, shaking, half-mad.

He holds me like I’m sacred. Like I’m still whole.

And I remember.

The binding wasn’t just a rite.

It was a promise.

Aldric foolishly continues his quest toward me, scraping his stomach along the ground.

I raise my hand to end him, but Kieran steps between us. He stands as a man, bloodied, radiant, furious.

“She chose who she wanted, and it’s not you, you filthy mutt.”

Aldric lunges, and Kieran catches his blade, twists, and drives it through Aldric’s gut. The wolf alpha gasps, choking on his own bloo,d but Kieran doesn’t flinch.

“You should’ve stayed buried.”

Aldric falls before me, and the only thing I feel is relief.

Kieran slides beside me, his form dripping gore, his eyes burning. Then all I see is darkness.