The forest wore a shroud of mist and mourning as Lyra and a chosen few slipped through its wounded heart.
The Pack behind her licked their wounds, buried their dead.
But Lyra could not rest.
Not when blood had been spilled.
Not when the Hunters still roamed free.
The scent of steel and smoke still lingered in the cold air, sharp and bitter.
She could taste it on her tongue.
Her silver wolf trotted silently beside her, ears pricked, every muscle coiled for battle.
Behind them, four of her fiercest warriors followed — Riven, tall and grim with an axe strapped across his back; Tamsin, small and feral-eyed, twin daggers flashing at her hips; Kael, a brooding shadow with arms crisscrossed in old scars; and Maela, whose sharp gaze missed nothing.
They moved as one, silent as the mist, tracking the blood trail left by the retreating Hunters.
Each step took them deeper into enemy territory — a place where the trees grew twisted, their bark blackened as if scorched by some ancient fire.
"This is no place for the living," Riven muttered.
Lyra said nothing.
The trail was fresh.
The prey was close.
And she would not turn back.
Hours passed.
The sun, a pale wraith behind heavy clouds, never rose high enough to burn away the mist.
The world here felt… wrong. As if it had forgotten the warmth of life.
Finally, they found them.
A small camp nestled in a ravine, hidden from casual eyes.
Five Hunters remained, hunched around a meager fire.
They looked exhausted, wounded, desperate.
But still dangerous.
Lyra watched from the ridge above, heart pounding, breath slow and steady.
She counted the targets, noted the weapons at their sides, the armor still blood-streaked from the battle.
Easy.
Too easy.
She signaled her Packmates — silent hand signs learned through endless drills.
Surround. Wait. Strike.
They moved into position without a sound, wolves in human skins.
Lyra crept closer, her blade drawn.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
For the dead.
For the Pack.
She tensed, ready to spring—
When one of the Hunters looked up and spoke, voice low and raw:
"Lyra Bennett."
Her blood ran cold.
The world seemed to narrow around her.
She knew that voice.
A memory stirred — broken, half-buried — of a boy's laughter in golden fields.
Of betrayal.
Of fire.
The Hunter threw back his hood.
Lyra stumbled back a step, breath stolen from her lungs.
It was him.
Calen.
Her brother.
"Stand down!" Lyra barked to her Pack, her voice sharp as a blade.
Confused, they hesitated — but obeyed.
The other Hunters tensed, hands flying to weapons, but Calen raised a hand to stay them.
He looked older.
Hollowed out.
Haunted.
His eyes, once so full of light, were shadows now.
"You shouldn't have come here, Lyra," he said.
The Pack shifted behind her, low growls rumbling.
Riven hissed under his breath, "You know him?"
"Yes," Lyra said. Her voice barely carried over the crackling fire below.
"My brother."
Shock rippled through her warriors — betrayal tainting the air like spoiled blood.
"Half-brother," Calen corrected coldly. "You were never one of us."
Pain flared deep in Lyra's chest, old and sharp.
"You fought with the Hunters," she said. "You are a Hunter."
He laughed — a broken, bitter sound.
"You don't understand," he said. "You never did. You're not what you think you are, Lyra."
She stepped forward, blade still lowered but ready.
"Then tell me," she said. "Tell me what I am."
Calen's mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a grimace.
"You are a weapon," he said. "Forged by something older and darker than even the Savage Moon."
The words hit her like a hammer.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded.
Calen shook his head.
"It doesn't matter. You're marked now. You're theirs."
He pointed toward the sky, where the broken moon hung heavy.
"They'll come for you," he said. "And next time, there won't be any mercy."
Lyra felt the silver wolf press against her leg, a silent reminder of her strength.
"You came for me first," she said.
Calen's face twisted with grief.
"No, Lyra," he said. "I came to save you."
Then, without another word, he turned — and threw something into the fire.
A small, blackened stone.
The fire exploded in a blinding flash, white smoke pouring out, choking the ravine.
Lyra coughed, stumbled back, eyes burning.
When the smoke cleared, the Hunters were gone.
Only the broken camp remained — and the shattered pieces of Lyra's past.
"Alpha," Maela said carefully, stepping beside her. "What now?"
Lyra stared at the empty space where her brother had stood.
She felt… nothing.
No rage.
No grief.
Only a cold certainty.
"We hunt," she said.
"But not just them."
She turned to her Pack, voice iron.
"We hunt the truth."
The Pack descended into the ravine cautiously, searching for signs — a dropped weapon, a blood trail, anything.
But the Hunters had vanished like smoke.
Too clean. Too fast.
It was magic.
Old magic.
The kind Lyra's people feared.
She crouched near the ashes of the fire, sifting through them carefully.
Her fingers brushed something cold — half-melted metal, inscribed with symbols she didn't recognize.
Riven peered over her shoulder.
"That's no Hunter craft," he said.
"No," Lyra agreed. "Something worse."
Her thoughts spun.
Calen's words gnawed at her mind.
"You're marked now."
"You were forged by something older and darker."
She closed her hand around the strange object. The metal pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat against her palm.
The silver wolf growled low, sensing it too.
Lyra shoved it into a pouch at her belt.
Answers could come later.
Now, they needed to survive.
They made camp that night far from the ruined ravine, under a canopy of ancient trees.
The Pack spoke little, their distrust simmering beneath the surface.
She felt it in the way Riven's gaze lingered too long on her.
In how Tamsin kept one hand always near her dagger.
Lyra understood.
They had followed her into battle without question.
Now, doubt festered among them.
Because blood ties to a Hunter — to the enemy — could not be easily forgotten.
As the fire cracked and spat, Kael finally broke the silence.
"You should explain," he said gruffly.
The others turned to her, expectant, wary.
Lyra stared into the flames, memories rising unbidden.
Of being a child with no Pack to claim her.
Of human villages that turned her away in fear.
Of Calen — her first friend, her first protector — until he chose the Hunters over her.
She took a slow, measured breath.
"My mother," she said, "was not one of us."
Silence.
"She was human. She fled the Old Kingdom during the Purge. She thought hiding among men would save her. It didn't."
Lyra's voice was steady, but inside, a thousand wounds bled anew.
"They found her. Burned her alive for witchcraft. I survived."
"And Calen?" Maela asked quietly.
"He was her son by another man," Lyra said. "Born human. I was… something else."
The Pack listened, faces carved from stone.
"I don't know who my true father was," she said. "Or what blood runs in my veins. Only that it made me different. Stronger. Faster. Cursed."
She lifted her gaze to them, defiant.
"I chose the Pack. I chose you."
A long moment passed.
Then Maela knelt, pressing her fist to her heart.
"For the Alpha," she said.
One by one, the others followed.
Even Riven, though his eyes were still shadowed.
Lyra felt a knot loosen in her chest.
But trust once cracked would never fully heal.
And somewhere in the deep night, as she stared into the flickering fire, Lyra knew:
Calen had spoken true.
Something old stirred in her blood.
Something darker than even the Hunters.
And whatever it was — it was waking.
Far away, beyond the forest, a figure in a blackened crown stood atop a crumbling tower.
He watched the Savage Moon with hollow eyes, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
"The Bloodborn stirs," he murmured to the night.
"And the Hunt begins anew."
The shadows around him twisted and laughed, eager for the coming slaughter.