CHAPTER 190: CHAPTER 190: FLAMES FOR THE QUEEN

Lorraine’s POV

It has been two days since the Battle of Lunar Crest, and the academy still breathes like a graveyard.

The halls that once thrummed with whispers and laughter felt hollow now, the silence pressing in from every corner. A numbness lingered over the campus like fog, unshakable and heavy. Even when voices rose, they were subdued, respectful, as if the very walls were in mourning.

They called it a victory, the "Battle of Lunar Crest," some already whispering it like a legend. But it didn’t feel like a victory. Not to me.

The queen was dead. Kieran’s mother, Athena Valerius Hunter, the Ghosthound Queen herself, gone.

Her death had bled the triumph out of everyone. Students who survived dragged their feet as if carrying invisible chains. Many were still recovering at the academy hospital, their bandages soaked in herbs, their groans echoing down sterile corridors. Others had already returned to their dorms, but classes hadn’t resumed. Maybe the professors knew none of us were ready to go back to normal, not after what we’d seen.

The battle was over, but it hadn’t left me. It clawed at me every time I closed my eyes. Aveline’s face haunted me most of all. Her wide, desperate eyes as her heart ripped from her chest, as my hand, no, not my hand, something greater, something other, delivered her death. Adrian’s gaunt face still hunted me across my dreams. His sister, his only family, taken by me.

I hadn’t had a single night of peaceful sleep since. When exhaustion finally dragged me under, nightmares chewed at me, cruel and unrelenting. And when I woke, the torment never stopped.

My wolf was awake now, fully awake. I could feel her pulsing beneath my skin, a thrumming rhythm of power I didn’t understand, couldn’t control. It should have been a blessing. I had my arm back, my strength, my power. Every student at the academy now made way for me when I walked the halls, stepping back as if my shadow burned them. They feared me. They whispered about me.

But inside?

Inside, I was rotting.

My skin prickled like thousands of tiny needles were stabbing into me at once. The throbbing in my bones never ceased. And then there was the mumbling, soft, constant, maddening. Words I couldn’t catch, spilling endlessly at the back of my head. Sometimes it grew louder, swelling into a roar that scraped against my skull like steel dragged against steel. I wanted to rip my own head open just to make it stop.

And yet, through all of it, I carried on. Pretended. Smiled when needed, nodded when spoken to. But the truth was, I was unraveling.

A knock pulled me from the spiral.

"Lorraine."

Felix’s voice.

I blinked, dragging myself back into the present. My hand had curled into a tight fist without me realizing, my nails biting crescents into my palm.

I opened the door to find him standing there. Felix, scraped up, weary eyed, but alive. He was the only one left. The only other feral who survived. Just us now, in that hollow shell of a dorm that once held so many.

"It’s time," he said simply, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

"For what?" My voice sounded hoarse, even to me.

"The funeral procession."

I froze for a moment. As if the words were foreign, as if I hadn’t been dreading them since the moment the queen’s body went still in Kieran’s arms.

"Oh," I whispered. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to nod. "Alright."

Felix’s gaze softened, but he didn’t press. He knew better. He turned slightly, waiting.

I was already dressed, black robes, simple but suffocating.

My reflection on the mirror earlier while I was dressing up had startled me, pale skin stretched thinner than before, dark shadows beneath my eyes, lips dry from sleepless nights. And my hair... still streaked white, a stubborn proof of whatever monster I had become.

"Let’s go," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt.

Felix nodded, stepping aside so I could walk beside him.

The air outside was colder than I expected, biting against my skin as we stepped out. All around us, students were filing slowly toward the courtyard, their faces grim, their eyes downcast. Some clutched candles, others flowers. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared to.

We had won the battle, yes. But at what cost?

A queen lost. The leader escaped. Adrian escaped, her sister slain by my own hand.

And me?

I was no victor. Just a ghost carrying a borrowed wolf, stumbling toward a funeral.

As we walked with the crowd of students, Varya was the first to approach us.

Her red hair was tied back in a sharp ponytail. She looked untouched by exhaustion, her skin unmarked, her movements calm, composed. It was as though the battle had barely grazed her, and maybe it hadn’t. She was Lycan, after all. They healed quickly, their bodies built for endless war.

"Hi," Varya greeted, her voice steady.

Felix gave her a small nod, answering politely, "Hi, Varya."

I didn’t trust my own mouth. If I opened it, I wasn’t sure if words or a scream would come out. So I only dipped my head once, a quiet acknowledgment, and kept walking.

Her gaze slid toward me, catching the streak of white strands still tangled in my hair.

"The streaks are still there," she noted, her tone softer now. "I think they look good on you, though."

I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Compliment or not, her words brushed against a wound too raw. My skin felt tight again, prickling as if thousands of invisible needles were crawling just beneath its surface. The buzzing in my skull returned with it, faint whispers rising to a fever pitch I could almost hear clearly. Almost. If I focused too much, I thought I might split my own head open to get them out.

So I said nothing.

Varya didn’t push.

It was Alistair Ashthorne who came next, his tall figure weaving through the gathering crowd until he fell into step beside us. His face looked sharper than ever, lines of fatigue carved into it, but his eyes... his eyes were watchful, weighing.

"How are you all doing?" he asked, voice heavy with that strange mix of command and concern he carried so well.

Felix answered before I could. "Could’ve definitely been better."

Alistair gave a slow nod, sparing me a glance that lingered for a moment too long. He didn’t say anything, though. Maybe he could see the storm crawling under my skin.

We walked together in silence after that, feet carrying us to the open yard.

The space had been transformed. At its center, a towering bonfire was stacked high, logs and branches built carefully into a pyre. An empty casket rested before it, waiting. Students surrounded the scene, their expressions solemn, their silence profound. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

And then he came.

Kieran.

My chest tightened at the sight of him.

He carried her, the Queen, the Ghosthound Queen, his mother, in his arms. She wore a robe the color of blood, crimson against her pale skin. Her face looked almost peaceful, but the weight of her loss made every step Kieran took heavier than the last. He held her like she was the last piece of his soul, like letting her go would mean the end of him.

The sounds in my head shifted the moment I saw him. The murmuring, the scratching, all of it thinned until it was just one long, high pitched note, piercing and relentless, but clearer than before. My body felt locked, my eyes wide as I watched him move forward, as if the world itself had dimmed and only Kieran remained.

He walked with no expression, no mask of fury or grief, only that unreadable emptiness that scared me more than anything ever could. He reached the casket, his movements slow, reverent, and laid his mother inside with a tenderness that shattered me.

Behind him came Astrid, Magnus, and Cyrin, each dressed in black. Their presence was quiet, loyal shadows to Kieran’s grief.

Since the battle, I hadn’t spoken to him. I had barely even seen him. The thought twisted something sharp inside me. What was going on with him? How was he surviving this? Was he surviving at all?

My heart ached for him, heavy and raw.

Kieran lingered a moment by the casket before Astrid approached with a torch, its flame bright against the night. He took it without a word, the fire dancing in his grip.

And that was when it happened.

A flash ripped across my vision.

I blinked, and suddenly the bonfire was gone.

Instead, I was standing in the middle of a vast, endless darkness. A white robe clung to me, pure and ceremonial, but it offered no comfort. Flames erupted at my feet, racing upward with terrifying speed. The fire was not warm, it was searing, devouring. My skin blistered, cracked, and began to melt from my bones as the white fabric fused to me, burning into my flesh.

I tried to scream but at first nothing came out, then it tore from me, a raw, piercing shriek that rattled the void around me, filled with agony so sharp it felt like it could split me in two. My body writhed, but the flames only tightened their grip, consuming me whole until I thought there would be nothing left.

And then....

The vision shattered.

I stumbled back into the present, lungs gasping for air that didn’t want to come. My knees nearly buckled beneath me, trembling violently. The prickling under my skin flared to a maddening peak, like a thousand knives twisting at once. The mumbling in my head surged louder, words I still couldn’t understand crashing into me in waves, relentless, unending.

I clutched my head, fighting not to break apart right there, terrified that if I screamed again, I would break apart and go mad.