His Silent Luna (Verity and Felicity) novel Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD

Verity’s Perspective

The texture of the book’s pages was rough and brittle beneath my fingertips, the kind of paper that whispered faint cracks as I turned each leaf. I had just finished reading the section dedicated to Valcaryn—my homeland—and although the memories didn’t fully resurface from my past life, the vivid descriptions stirred a strange warmth inside me, like a faint echo of a place I once belonged to.

Now, before me lay the next chapter, its title inked in a deep, almost bleeding black that seemed to seep into the fibers of the page:

Kingdom Shadow Fang.

Without needing to read further, I knew this was Cassian’s realm—the very kingdom I currently found myself in.

The first image struck me immediately: a fortress carved from black stone, towering over jagged cliffs that plunged into a storm-darkened sky. The spires jutted sharply upward, slicing through the heavy clouds. Painted wolves clad in armor that shimmered like polished obsidian stood rigid and disciplined, their eyes cold and unyielding, as if daring any challenger to approach. The very atmosphere in the illustration felt dense, oppressive.

The Kingdom of Shadow Fang reigns as the most formidable and feared territory within the werewolf world. Born from bloodshed, forged by iron discipline, and constructed for endless war, it has never knelt before any other power. The wolves of Shadow Fang are bred for exceptional strength—physically, mentally, and politically. From a young age, they are trained to wield their bodies as weapons and their minds as unbreakable fortresses.

As I read on, each sentence echoed their raw power and commanding presence.

Shadow Fang has always been governed by dominance alone. Their kings are warriors first and rulers second, their reigns defined by unrelenting conquest paired with an unshakable unity. To live within its borders is to abide by a harsh code: strength above all else, loyalty without question, and betrayal met with death.

I paused, my thumb gently brushing the edge of the page. This was a kingdom built on order, yes—but also steeped in fear. Still, Cassian had never struck me as the ruthless tyrant these words suggested.

The tone shifted suddenly in the next lines, written in a style that felt archaic, almost foreign, as if lifted from a forgotten tongue. Each phrase carried a menacing weight.

The Prophecy of the Shadow Fang.

Unlike the rest of the book, these words appeared not written but stamped onto the paper, as though branded. The ink itself was unsettling—dark, thick, and disturbingly reminiscent of blood.

I swallowed hard, a chill running down my spine.

“When the moon is swallowed by shadow,
And the white wolf bleeds upon foreign soil,
The Fang shall rise in unbroken dominion.

Yet in the blood of light lies the key to darkness’ undoing—
One born under twin signs,
Who will bind the night and the dawn,
Or bring both to ruin.”

My fingers lingered over the prophecy, tracing its letters as if by touch I might unravel more secrets. A faint tremor passed through me at the mention of the white wolf bleeding on foreign ground.

The Darklands.

The accompanying image was haunting: gnarled, twisted trees clawing into a dense gray fog, skeletal ruins where shadows pooled unnaturally, and creatures that resembled wolves but were grotesquely misshapen, their eyes glowing red or white with eerie intensity.

The Darklands were no true kingdom but a blighted scar upon the earth—a legacy of magic gone horribly wrong and battles fought with powers never meant for mortal hands. The very land was warped, its air thick with black magic that seeped into the bones of any who dared enter. Few who crossed its borders ever returned, and those who did bore wounds far deeper than flesh could show.

The text described rogue packs—wolves who had abandoned all kingdoms, living as predators in the endless fog. It spoke of cursed creatures, spirits bound to the ruins, and relics so perilous that even the bravest rulers refused to seek them out.

Legends whispered that the Darklands held the remnants of the First War’s most devastating weapons, locked away in places where time itself seemed to twist and bend. But to pursue them was to invite the sleeping curse lurking there.

A shiver ran through me as I tried to push the dark memories of that place to the back of my mind. I knew I would have to face them again soon enough, but I wasn’t ready just yet.

I leaned back in my chair, my heart still pounding loudly in my ears.

Shadow Fang. The prophecy. Duskwatch. The Darklands.

All these pieces swirled chaotically in my mind, like fragments of a puzzle I had yet to understand how to assemble. Carefully, I closed the book—the soft thud echoing in the quiet library—and slid it back onto the shelf.