The Hollow Grove lay beyond the jagged cliffs that bordered Bloodborn territory — a dead place where even the bravest wolves refused to tread.
The trees were ancient, gnarled things, their bark black as pitch, their leaves a sickly silver that never changed, even in death.
Mist curled between the roots like living serpents.
It was here that Lyra's path led.
Here that the Seer would be found.
And here, she knew, she might find answers to the curse gnawing at her blood.
They set out before dawn, a small party — just Lyra, Riven, Maela, and the silver wolf.
Tamsin and Kael stayed behind to watch the Pack.
Lyra could not risk more lives than she had to.
The Hollow Grove did not suffer the living easily.
The air grew colder with every step toward the cliffs, the scent of the earth sour and sharp.
No birds sang here.
No insects buzzed.
Only silence.
Crushing, heavy, unnatural.
Riven kept his axe loose in his hands, his eyes darting constantly to the shifting shadows.
"This is madness," he muttered. "No one returns from the Grove."
Lyra didn't answer.
Madness or not, she had no choice.
The dreams were worsening.
Visions of a broken moon, of cities drowned in blood, of herself howling into a sky set ablaze.
If there was a way to stop the nightmare, she would find it.
Or she would die trying.
They reached the Grove as the last light of day surrendered to dusk.
The Hollow trees rose before them like a forest of bones, skeletal and vast.
At the threshold, Lyra hesitated.
The silver wolf growled low, hackles raised.
The earth trembled faintly beneath their feet.
"We go together," Lyra said.
They crossed into the Grove.
The world behind them vanished, swallowed by mist.
Hours passed — or maybe days.
Time twisted strangely here.
The trees seemed to move when no one watched, always closing in tighter, their branches clutching like bony fingers.
Once, Maela gasped as she caught sight of a shadow flitting just beyond the edge of vision — something too large, too fast, to be merely a trick of the mist.
"Stay close," Lyra warned.
But the Grove had no mercy.
At the center of the Hollow Grove, where the trees grew thickest and the ground split open into a yawning chasm, they found them.
The Wraithwolves.
Dozens of them.
Ghostly forms of wolves, their bodies translucent, eyes burning with hollow silver fire.
They circled the chasm like silent sentinels, never crossing the invisible boundary.
Maela swore under her breath.
"What in the name of the Old Moon…?"
"They are the fallen," Riven said grimly. "Wolves who dared seek the Seer and never returned."
Lyra tightened her grip on her blade.
One wrong step, and they would join them.
The silver wolf stepped forward, head bowed low, ears pinned flat.
A low, mournful howl rose from its throat — a sound so full of sorrow that even the mist seemed to shudder.
The Wraithwolves paused.
And then, slowly, they parted, leaving a narrow, winding path to the chasm's edge.
Lyra exchanged a glance with her Packmates.
No words were needed.
Together, they followed the path.
The ground crumbled beneath their feet as they descended into the darkness.
At the bottom of the chasm, there was no mist, no light, only an endless pool of black water that mirrored the broken sky above.
In the center of that pool stood a figure cloaked in rags, their face hidden by a veil of woven silver threads.
The Seer.
"Welcome, Bloodborn," the Seer intoned, voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"You have come seeking truth."
Lyra stepped forward, heart hammering.
"I seek answers," she said.
The Seer's veiled head tilted slightly.
"Answers come at a price."
"I will pay it."
"Will you pay in blood?" the Seer asked. "Or in soul?"
Lyra hesitated — but only for a moment.
"In both," she said.
The Seer's thin lips curved into something resembling a smile.
"Very well."
The Seer reached into the dark waters and pulled forth a shard of black glass.
"See," the Seer whispered.
And Lyra saw.
Visions crashed into her — wild, brutal, unstoppable.
She saw a city drowned in crimson tides.
A throne of bones.
A woman crowned with a burning halo — her own face twisted in fury.
She saw the Savage Moon, fractured and weeping fire.
And she saw herself — standing atop a field of corpses, her silver wolf at her side, her hands dripping with blood.
"You are not merely Bloodborn," the Seer's voice rasped in her mind.
"You are the last of the Moonforged."
"A weapon. A queen. A curse."
"And the Savage Moon… is dying."
The visions ended.
Lyra collapsed to her knees, gasping.
The silver wolf nuzzled her urgently, whining.
Riven and Maela rushed forward, but the Seer raised a hand, halting them.
"You carry within you the blood of both the Wild and the Wretched," the Seer said.
"The last Moonforged."
Lyra struggled to her feet.
"What must I do?" she demanded.
The Seer's silver-veiled face turned toward the dark sky.
"When the Final Howl sounds," they said, "you must choose."
"Choose what?"
"Whether to save the Savage Moon — or to break it forever."
The chasm rumbled, the black waters boiling and churning.
"Choose wrongly," the Seer said, "and the world will drown in ash and blood."
The Hollow Grove shuddered around them.
The Wraithwolves howled in unison — a sound of unbearable grief and rage.
Lyra turned to her Pack.
"We leave," she said.
Now.
They ran.
Mist swallowed them whole.
Behind them, the Grove collapsed, trees toppling like dying titans.
The silver wolf led the way, its body glowing faintly with ethereal light.
They did not stop until the mist thinned, until the first stars pierced the sky.
When they finally stumbled free of the Grove's cursed grasp, Lyra fell to her knees on the cold grass, trembling.
She was not who she thought she was.
Not merely a Packborn girl, not merely a fighter.
She was a relic of a forgotten age.
A Moonforged.
And the fate of everything she loved would soon rest on the blade she carried — and the choice she would be forced to make.
Far across the lands, under the broken light of the Savage Moon, the Black Crowned King stirred.
He smiled, sensing her awakening.
"Soon," he whispered.
"Soon, little wolf. The end begins."