The clearing still reeked of blood and death.
As the sun rose, casting faint silver across the blood-soaked earth, Lyra sat in silence, surrounded by the wolves who had answered her call. Their bodies, fierce and scarred, pressed against her in silent solidarity.
But the woman — the Matron, as she now realized — was not finished with her yet.
"You have survived the Hunt," the Matron said, her voice solemn. "But survival is only the beginning."
Lyra shifted, her muscles stiff and aching. "What comes next?"
The Matron's lips curled into a faint, grim smile.
"Blood Oath."
The Matron rose and motioned for Lyra to follow.
The wolves parted to let her pass, their golden eyes watching every movement she made.
With great effort, Lyra pushed herself to her feet, cradling her injured arm against her side.
The dagger — her dagger now — was strapped securely to her hip.
Together they moved away from the clearing, deeper into the forest where the mist thickened, and the trees grew ancient and twisted.
The silver-furred wolf stayed at her side, a silent guardian.
Lyra realized with a sudden pang that it wasn't just any wolf — it was a spirit bound to her now, tied by blood and destiny.
As they walked, the Matron spoke.
"You were chosen by the Moon's Will," she said. "The Savage Moon does not select lightly."
Lyra swallowed hard. "Chosen for what?"
The Matron stopped before a massive tree, its bark blackened and split, its roots clawing into the earth like gnarled fingers.
"This," she said, resting a hand against the trunk.
In the center of the tree was a hollow, large enough for a person to step inside. Inside, the air shimmered with a faint silver mist.
Lyra felt a tug deep in her chest.
The Matron turned to face her, eyes gleaming.
"Enter the Hollow," she said. "Face your Blood. Face your Beast. Only then will you be truly one of us."
Lyra hesitated.
The Hollow seemed to breathe — inhaling and exhaling mist with every heartbeat.
It was terrifying.
It was calling her.
Without another word, Lyra stepped forward and entered.
The mist closed around her instantly, swallowing her whole.
Inside, the world changed.
There was no ground, no sky — only endless mist and shifting shadows.
And then, before her, the mist coalesced into a figure.
It was herself.
But not.
This Lyra was taller, stronger, with silver-flecked hair and eyes that burned with a savage light.
Her teeth were sharper. Her fingers ended in claws.
The Beast.
The True Self.
They circled each other in the mist.
Lyra's heart pounded in her chest.
She understood instinctively: this was her final trial. She could not flee. She could not hide.
She had to fight.
And if she lost…
She would be consumed.
The Beast lunged first.
Lyra barely dodged in time, feeling claws rake the air inches from her throat.
She countered with a swift jab, but the Beast moved with uncanny speed, sidestepping easily.
Their battle was brutal and savage — claw against dagger, fang against fist.
Each blow Lyra landed was matched by two from her other self.
Blood sprayed the mist.
Pain lanced through her body.
But Lyra did not back down.
Each time the Beast struck, Lyra felt something break inside — some last fragile piece of her old, human life.
The scared girl from the village.
The lonely orphan.
The outcast.
Piece by piece, she shed them like old skin.
Until all that remained was the fire, the fury, the will to survive.
At last, gasping for breath, Lyra feinted left and then drove her dagger straight into the Beast's heart.
The Beast gasped, silver blood blooming from the wound — and smiled.
"You are ready," it whispered, voice like wind and thunder.
Then the Beast dissolved into light, and the mist swallowed everything whole.
Lyra staggered, falling to her knees.
Something seared across her back — a brand burning into her skin.
She cried out but did not move.
This was her Mark — her bond to the Savage Moon made flesh.
When she stumbled back out of the Hollow, blinking against the dawn light, the Matron was waiting.
Without a word, she approached and helped Lyra to her feet.
On Lyra's back, etched into her flesh, was a sprawling symbol — a crescent moon entwined with thorns and wolves.
The Mark of the Savage.
The Matron knelt and pressed her forehead to Lyra's marked shoulder — a gesture of deep respect.
"You are Bloodborn," she said. "You are Pack. You are ours."
Around them, the wolves howled once more, their voices rising into the breaking dawn.
Lyra stood tall, her heart full, her destiny clear.
This was only the beginning.
The world beyond the forest still slept, unaware of the storm that now brewed in its shadow.
But soon…
Very soon…
They would know her name.
As the wolves' howls faded into the wind, Lyra felt a strange pull in her chest, a heartbeat not entirely her own.
The silver wolf — her wolf now — padded up to her and bowed its head.
Tentatively, Lyra reached out.
Their connection flared the moment her fingers brushed its fur — a surge of warmth, strength, and ancient memories flowing through her veins.
Visions flashed before her eyes: forgotten battles under moons of blood, sacred rites performed in hidden groves, names and faces lost to history but etched into her bloodline.
"You are more than you know," the Matron said, watching her carefully.
"And the enemies you must face are greater than the Broken."
Lyra turned to her, throat dry.
"Who?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
The Matron's eyes darkened, reflecting something ancient and terrible.
"The Hunters," she said.
"The ones who wear human faces but whose hearts are blacker than any beast."
The ground seemed to tilt under Lyra's feet.
The Hunt had been a beginning, not an end.
Her true war was yet to come.
Lyra tightened her grip on the silver wolf's fur, steadying herself.
"The Hunters…" she repeated, tasting the bitterness of the word.
The Matron nodded slowly.
"They are men who have rejected the Moon's gifts. Men who fear what they cannot control. For centuries, they have hunted our kind, driving us into the shadows."
Lyra felt a slow-burning rage coil in her gut.
All her life, she had been an outsider.
All her life, she had been told she was wrong, broken — cursed.
Now she understood why.
"They will come for you," the Matron said, her voice dropping lower. "Especially now that you bear the Mark. They can smell power… and they despise it."
Lyra clenched her fists.
"Let them come," she whispered fiercely.
The Matron smiled, something cold and proud flashing in her eyes.
"You are Savage, Bloodborn," she said. "But even the fiercest wolf does not hunt alone."
She lifted a hand and whistled — a sharp, commanding note.
From the mists, other figures began to emerge.
Young men and women, each bearing a faint silver glow beneath their skin, eyes sharp, wild, and wary. Some had scars running across their arms and throats; others carried weapons fashioned from bone and ironwood.
They were like Lyra — warriors touched by the Savage Moon.
The Pack.
One by one, they approached and knelt before her.
Acknowledging her.
Accepting her.
Swearing themselves to her cause.
In that moment, something deep inside Lyra shifted and locked into place — a power she could barely comprehend, a destiny she could no longer deny.
She was no longer alone.
The Savage Moon had called her — and she had answered.
And soon…
The world would tremble beneath her howl.