The moment the words left the woman's lips, the forest changed.
The mist writhed like living things, curling into clawed hands and twisted faces before fading again into the night.
The wolves howled once more, but now it was different — urgent, desperate, wild.
Lyra's heart hammered as she clutched the dagger closer to her chest.
The pendant the woman had given her — the one marked "Savage" — burned against her skin, sinking its weight deeper with every breath she took.
The silver-furred wolf, her silent guide, approached and nudged her leg gently with its nose.
An invitation.
A warning.
"You must run now," the woman said, stepping back into the ring of stones. Her voice rang out, cold and final.
"You must survive until dawn."
Lyra opened her mouth to protest — to ask what she was supposed to fight, where she was supposed to go — but the woman was already turning away. The others were fading into the mists like phantoms.
Then the earth trembled.
A roar, loud enough to split the heavens, shook the valley.
Lyra spun around, eyes wide.
From the forest beyond the stone circle, shapes emerged — massive beasts, twisted hybrids of man and wolf, their eyes glowing red and gold in the bloodlight.
Not Trueborn.
Not pure.
These were the Broken — cursed souls who had failed their blood trials, who had lost themselves to the beast within.
And now they hunted her.
The Hunt had truly begun.
Lyra ran.
The wolves scattered before her, forming a protective barrier as she bolted through the trees, her breath ragged, her legs burning.
Behind her, the Broken gave chase — snarls and growls echoing through the night like a chorus of nightmares.
Every step was a battle.
Branches slashed at her face; rocks slid under her boots. The forest itself seemed to conspire against her, trying to pull her down, slow her, feed her to the monsters behind.
But Lyra pushed on, teeth clenched, eyes fixed ahead.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that she couldn't stop.
Not until dawn.
Not until she proved she belonged to the Savage Moon.
The silver wolf raced alongside her, silent and fierce, occasionally snapping at a Broken that got too close.
Once, Lyra caught a glimpse of herself reflected in a pool of still water as she passed — a ghostly figure, hair wild, eyes glowing faintly with a new, feral light.
She hardly recognized herself.
But she didn't fear the change anymore.
She embraced it.
When a Broken lunged from the shadows — a hulking thing with twisted limbs and slavering jaws — Lyra didn't hesitate.
She pivoted sharply, sidestepped its charge, and plunged her dagger deep into its throat.
The blade, etched with crimson sigils, sizzled on contact.
The beast howled and crumpled to the ground, its body dissolving into ash.
Lyra stared at her hand, breathing hard.
She had killed without thought. Without remorse.
Something inside her howled in triumph.
And it terrified her.
Hours blurred into one another.
The Hunt raged on.
At least a dozen Broken had fallen by Lyra's hand now, but their numbers didn't seem to dwindle. For every one she killed, two more seemed to emerge from the gloom.
Exhaustion gnawed at her.
Her limbs ached.
Her lungs burned.
Her mind frayed at the edges.
But she kept moving.
She had to.
In a clearing bathed in the blood moon's light, she stumbled — nearly falling — and caught herself against a jagged stone.
The silver wolf circled her anxiously.
"I can't…" she gasped, sinking to her knees. "I can't outrun them all."
The pendant at her throat burned hotter, and in her mind, a whisper stirred — a memory not her own, a voice older than centuries.
"You are not prey, child."
"You are the storm."
Lyra gritted her teeth.
Slowly, painfully, she rose.
The Broken circled the clearing, their eyes ravenous.
Lyra tightened her grip on the dagger.
"No more running," she whispered.
She braced herself.
Let them come.
The first Broken charged. Lyra sidestepped, slicing a deep gash across its ribs. It shrieked, black blood spraying across the mossy ground.
The second came from behind — Lyra twisted, ducked, stabbed upward under its chin.
The third tackled her full force, knocking the dagger from her hand.
They rolled across the earth in a tangle of limbs and claws. Lyra snarled — a raw, animal sound — and raked her nails across its face.
To her shock, her nails lengthened mid-swipe, becoming wicked talons.
The Broken reeled back, howling.
Lyra seized the moment, grabbed a jagged rock, and slammed it into the creature's skull.
It fell, twitching.
Breathless, bleeding, Lyra retrieved her dagger and rose again.
More Broken poured into the clearing.
There were too many.
She couldn't win.
But maybe — just maybe — she didn't have to fight alone.
She lifted her head and howled — a wild, defiant sound that tore from her soul.
For a heartbeat, the night was silent.
Then the forest exploded with answering howls.
From the shadows, wolves poured forth — dozens of them — eyes gleaming, fangs bared.
The silver wolf led them, larger now, almost shimmering with a ghostly light.
The Broken hesitated, snarling, confused.
Lyra smiled grimly.
"Now," she hissed.
The wolves descended upon the Broken in a frenzy of teeth and fury.
Lyra moved among them like a phantom, striking down any who slipped past the wolves.
Together, they pushed the Broken back, slaughtering them one by one until none remained standing.
When the last beast fell, silence reclaimed the clearing.
The wolves gathered around Lyra, panting, blood-smeared, victorious.
Above, the first light of dawn bled into the sky — faint and silver against the blood moon's fading glow.
Lyra staggered to a rock and sat heavily, the dagger falling from her numb fingers.
The pendant around her neck pulsed warmly, no longer burning.
She had survived the Hunt.
Footsteps crunched through the clearing.
The woman from the stone circle approached, her expression unreadable.
"You called the Pack," she said softly, almost with awe.
Lyra nodded, too exhausted to speak.
"Few can," the woman continued. "Fewer still survive the night."
She knelt before Lyra and dipped her fingers into the bloodied earth, tracing a rune on Lyra's forehead.
"You are no longer a child of the Well," the woman said.
"You are Lyra Bloodborn. Daughter of the Savage Moon."
The wolves howled again — not in mourning, but in celebration.
And somewhere deep inside her, Lyra felt the bond settle into place.
Stronger than blood.
Stronger than fate.
She belonged.
At last.