The forest swallowed her whole.
Each step Lyra took into the misty darkness felt like crossing an invisible threshold — a point beyond which she could never return.
The towering trees, cloaked in silver light, leaned inward as if to listen, whispering secrets in a language she could almost understand now.
The silver-furred wolf moved ahead of her, silent and sure, occasionally glancing back to ensure she followed. Its massive paws barely disturbed the undergrowth, while Lyra struggled to keep pace, her boots snagging on hidden roots and damp moss.
Something inside her thrummed — a pull, a bond being woven strand by strand.
It wasn't just instinct.
It was destiny.
The journey deeper into the forest blurred time.
Minutes? Hours? Lyra couldn't tell. The blood moon never dipped from its throne above, casting the world into an endless twilight.
As they traveled, more wolves joined the silver one. First one, then another, and soon an entire procession of silent guardians surrounded her — black, grey, tawny — their eyes gleaming with intelligence and hunger.
Strangely, none of them threatened her.
They moved as if she was already one of their own.
When they reached a ridge overlooking a wide valley cloaked in mist, the silver wolf stopped.
Lyra followed its gaze — and gasped.
Below, carved into the earth itself, stood an ancient stone circle — massive pillars arranged in a perfect spiral, each stone etched with runes that pulsed faintly with a dull red light. Fires burned between them, casting long shadows that danced and writhed like living things.
And there, at the very center, figures waited.
Not human.
Not fully beast.
Something in between.
They wore robes of dark leather and bone, and their eyes gleamed gold and silver and blood-red. Some had antlers sprouting from their brows; others bore clawed hands or twisted spines.
They were beautiful and terrible all at once.
Lyra's breath hitched.
These were the Trueborn — the Lunar Bloodline — the first children of the Savage Moon.
And they had been waiting for her.
"Come forth, child of the well," a voice called, deep and commanding.
Lyra felt her feet move on their own. Down the rocky slope she went, past the silent wolves, into the very mouth of the ancient circle.
As she entered the spiral, the figures parted, creating a path straight to the center where a massive stone altar stood, cracked but unbroken.
Standing beside it was a woman — tall, draped in furs and iron, her silver hair braided with bones.
Her eyes — gods, her eyes — were mirrors of Lyra's own.
Pale grey. Piercing. Knowing.
"You are late," the woman said, a faint smile curving her lips. "But fate rarely keeps perfect time."
Lyra swallowed hard.
"I… I don't understand."
"You will."
The woman's voice softened slightly. "In time. Tonight, you are reborn. Tonight, you choose your path."
A heavy, thick silence fell.
The wolves around the circle lifted their heads, howling in unison — a sound that resonated through Lyra's very marrow.
She shuddered, feeling the bloodstone's lingering fire ignite once more within her veins.
The woman stepped aside, revealing the altar fully. Upon it lay two items:
A dagger, black as night, etched with crimson sigils.
A collar made of woven silver and thorns.
"One binds," the woman said. "One frees."
Lyra's hands shook at her sides.
"What happens if I choose wrong?"
The woman's smile widened, sharp and terrible.
"There is no wrong choice. Only consequence."
The wolves fell silent, watching.
Waiting.
Lyra's mind raced.
The dagger gleamed, whispering of strength, of carving her own path through the blood and bones of her enemies.
The collar shimmered, promising safety, belonging, and chains.
For a moment, she hesitated.
She thought of the life she left behind — the empty village, the stares, the whispers.
She thought of the masked man's claws.
She thought of the blood singing in her veins now, the ancient power that had claimed her.
Lyra reached forward — and chose.
Her fingers closed around the dagger's hilt.
The moment she lifted it, the ground trembled.
The spiral of stones flared red, the fires roared higher, and a chorus of howls shattered the night.
Power surged into her, washing away fear, doubt, and weakness.
The collar withered to ash where it lay.
The woman's laughter — wild and exultant — filled the clearing.
"You have chosen freedom," she said. "And with it, war."
Lyra gripped the dagger tighter, her heart pounding like a war drum.
"I'm ready," she said, her voice low and steady.
The woman's smile sharpened further.
"Then kneel, Lyra of the Well. Child of Blood and Moon. Sister to wolves and enemy to kings."
Lyra dropped to one knee, bowing her head.
The woman drew her own blade — a curved fang of silver — and pressed it lightly against Lyra's shoulder, then the other, then her brow.
"Rise, Savage Daughter," she intoned.
"Rise, and claim your fate."
As Lyra rose to her feet, the wolves began to move — circling, howling, their forms blurring into something not quite solid. The figures in the circle threw back their hoods, revealing faces marked by scars, brands, and ancient tattoos.
They chanted in an old tongue, words that Lyra could almost understand:
"Blood to blood. Bone to bone. Moon to child, and child to moon."
The spiral blazed brighter, and the mist thickened until it formed shapes — visions — futures.
Lyra saw herself running across battlefields, silver blade flashing.
Saw herself crowned in wolfskin, standing atop a fallen empire.
Saw herself bleeding under the light of a crueler moon, betrayed by one she loved.
Her heart raced, but she did not flinch.
The path was clear.
And it was hers to walk.
When the mist cleared, the woman approached once more and placed a heavy pendant around Lyra's neck — a disc of stone etched with a single rune: Savage.
"You have until the next full moon to prove yourself," the woman said, her voice grim.
"Or the blood you carry will consume you."
Lyra nodded, gripping her dagger.
"I will not fall."
The woman's smile was razor-thin.
"Then let the Hunt begin."