The Pack gathered in the heart of the forest.
Silver mist curled around their feet, and the air was thick with the scent of pine, blood, and ancient magic.
Torches burned low, casting long, writhing shadows across the clearing.
In the center stood Lyra, bare-footed, clothed only in a simple shift of dark linen.
Her new Mark — the crescent moon entwined with thorns and wolves — glowed faintly against her back.
Tonight was to be her formal induction.
Tonight, she would be claimed by the Savage Moon before all who bore its blood.
The Matron raised a carved staff made of blackwood high into the air. Symbols along its shaft flared briefly, pulsing with life.
"Tonight, under the Savage Moon's gaze, we call a new Alpha to rise!" she proclaimed, her voice carrying across the trees.
The Pack knelt, bowing their heads.
Lyra felt her heart hammering in her chest, wild and free.
The silver wolf circled her once, then sat at her side, tilting its muzzle up to the night sky.
Lyra followed its gaze—
And froze.
The moon above, once clear and full, was flickering.
As if something unseen moved between it and the earth.
The Matron stiffened.
The wolves whined low in their throats.
It was then Lyra smelled it.
Steel. Smoke. Death.
An arrow whistled through the mist, embedding itself into the ground at the Matron's feet.
A breathless silence fell.
Then — chaos.
Figures in dark armor burst from the trees, crossbows raised and blades flashing.
The Hunters.
Lyra spun, instincts roaring to life.
The silver wolf lunged first, a streak of teeth and fury. It tore into the nearest Hunter, sending him sprawling with a wet snap of bone.
The Pack scattered, some shifting mid-leap into monstrous wolf-forms, others drawing blades of their own.
The clearing became a battlefield.
Lyra ducked an arrow aimed at her heart, rolling across the ground and coming up behind one of the Hunters.
Without hesitation, she drove her dagger into the man's side, feeling it sink deep between the ribs.
He gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Lyra yanked her blade free and spun to face the next.
The air was filled with snarls, screams, and the thunder of bodies colliding.
Through the chaos, Lyra spotted a figure moving purposefully toward the center — tall, cloaked, carrying a strange weapon that shimmered like black fire.
He wasn't like the others.
This one was a leader.
A Hunter Commander.
Lyra bared her teeth and moved to intercept — but before she could reach him, three Hunters closed in around her, cutting her off.
They circled, cautious, weapons drawn.
Lyra tightened her grip on her dagger, heart pounding.
She didn't wait.
With a savage cry, she leapt at the nearest one, ducking under his swing and slashing across his thigh.
He howled and fell, but the others moved fast — too fast.
A blow caught Lyra across the ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.
She staggered, pain lancing through her side.
Another grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms.
She struggled, but the Hunter was strong, armor biting into her skin.
The third raised his blade, aiming for her heart.
"Lyra!" the Matron's voice rang out — but distant, too far away.
The silver wolf lunged, tearing into the Hunter holding her, and Lyra broke free, gasping.
The blade slashed downward —
Lyra caught it with her bare hands.
Pain exploded through her palms as the steel sliced her flesh — but she held it.
Teeth bared, she yanked the blade from the stunned Hunter's grasp and rammed it upward into his throat.
He collapsed, gurgling.
Blood dripped from Lyra's torn hands, but she barely felt it.
The Pack surged around her, rallying.
She turned her gaze toward the Hunter Commander — but he was already retreating, disappearing into the mist with a chilling smile.
Coward.
But something glinted where he had stood — a small iron brand pressed into the earth, smoking faintly.
A message.
A warning.
When the battle was over, the clearing was littered with bodies — Hunters and wolves alike.
The Matron limped toward Lyra, her face pale, blood seeping from a wound at her side.
"This was no accident," she rasped. "They knew tonight was important."
Lyra picked up the brand left behind by the Commander.
It was etched with a crude sigil — a broken moon.
Her blood ran cold.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
The Matron's eyes darkened.
"It means the Hunters have found a new master," she said grimly. "One who knows our rites. Our secrets."
Lyra tightened her fist around the brand until the iron seared her flesh.
A vow formed on her tongue, burning hotter than any fire.
"They'll regret this," she whispered.
The Matron smiled thinly, pride and sorrow warring in her eyes.
"They already do," she said.
"But the true war has only just begun."
Later, when the dead were buried and the wounded tended, the Pack gathered once more around the dying embers of their sacred fire.
Lyra stood among them, battered but unbroken.
She looked at their faces — young, old, scarred, scared — and saw herself reflected in them all.
They needed her.
She was their Alpha now.
Not by ceremony.
Not by blood alone.
By battle.
By fire.
By survival.
Raising her head high, Lyra let out a long, savage howl — a song of mourning, of rage, of defiance.
One by one, the Pack joined her, their voices lifting into the shattered night.
And somewhere, far beyond the trees, hidden in the shadows, other ears heard their cry.
Enemies.
Allies.
Monsters.
The Savage Moon watched it all, silent and waiting.
Its chosen daughter had taken her first steps into war.
And there would be no turning back.
As the final echoes of their howls faded into the mist, a heavy stillness settled over the clearing.
Lyra wiped the blood from her hands onto her torn shift. Every muscle in her body ached, but she remained standing.
She had to.
The Matron approached her once more, this time without her staff, moving with a limp that spoke of deeper wounds than she let show.
"You did not falter," the Matron said softly. "Even when faced with death."
Lyra shook her head.
"There was no choice."
"There is always a choice," the Matron said. Her wrinkled hand came to rest lightly on Lyra's shoulder. "But few choose to bleed for those who cannot yet fight for themselves."
Around them, the Pack watched in silence.
Some with hope in their eyes.
Some with doubt.
Not all were convinced of her worth.
Not yet.
Lyra felt their gazes like weights pressing against her soul. She lifted her chin higher.
"I am not the strongest," she said, voice carrying in the stillness. "I am not the oldest. But I am the one who will fight. I will lead you into the dark if I must — and I will tear down the sky itself if it means we survive."
A murmur passed through the Pack, rippling like a living thing.
One by one, some stepped forward.
First the young, bloodied ones who had fought beside her in the Hunt. Then the scarred veterans, whose eyes carried the weight of a hundred battles.
They knelt before her, pressing their fists to their hearts.
An oath without words.
A bond sealed in blood and spirit.
Only a few stayed back — wary, uncertain.
But Lyra did not blame them. Trust, she knew, was earned in scars, not speeches.
She would prove herself again, and again, until none could deny her.
The Matron gave a slow, approving nod.
"You are Alpha," she said, voice grave and final.
And the forest seemed to whisper in response, the Savage Moon's silver light breaking through the mist to bathe Lyra in its glow.
That night, around the small, struggling fire, Lyra sat awake while the others slept or tended to the wounded.
The silver wolf lay curled at her side, its breathing slow and steady.
In her hands, Lyra turned the blackened brand over and over, feeling the weight of it.
A broken moon.
A traitor among the Hunters.
An unknown master pulling their strings.
Questions burned in her mind, hotter than any wound.
Who had betrayed the Old Ways?
Why now?
What did they want from her?
Lyra clenched the brand so tightly that it bit into her palm.
The Pack had survived tonight — barely.
Next time, they might not be so lucky.
She had to be stronger.
Faster.
Smarter.
For them.
For the memory of the blood spilled tonight.
For the Savage Moon that had chosen her.
Lyra lifted her gaze to the fractured sky, where the moon fought to shine through the heavy clouds.
And she swore an oath into the night:
"I will hunt them. I will break them. I will be the storm they fear in the dark."
"By fang and claw, by blood and bone — I swear it."
The wind stirred, carrying her vow into the endless, waiting night.
Far beyond the forest, in places Lyra had never seen, dark forces stirred in answer.
The war for the Savage Moon had truly begun.
And Lyra Bennett, Alpha of the Bloodborn Pack, would be its spear.