The Pack's camp came into view just as the first sliver of dawn split the sky.
But the sky was wrong.
The moon — the Savage Moon — hung lower than ever, its cracked surface leaking thin rivers of ghostly silver light into the waking world.
Lyra stumbled into the clearing, the silver wolf by her side, Riven and Maela close behind.
Every head turned to her.
Every gaze was sharp. Suspicious.
Tamsin stepped forward, his sword bare in one hand.
"You made it out," he said, voice tight.
"But what are you now?"
Lyra opened her mouth to answer — but Kael shoved past him, urgency in every movement.
"Later," he snapped. "We have worse problems."
He pointed toward the northern ridge.
Lyra turned—and her heart clenched.
Shadows boiled at the horizon.
At first, she thought it was mist.
But mist didn't move like that.
Didn't writhe. Didn't scream.
The ground shook underfoot.
Low, resonant vibrations, growing stronger with every second.
"What is that?" Maela hissed.
Kael's face was grim.
"They fell last night. Star-shards."
Lyra remembered the Seer's words.
"The Savage Moon is dying."
And when a god dies, even its bones are cursed.
The shadows took shape as they neared.
Creatures unlike anything Lyra had ever seen.
Their bodies were jagged and crystalline, pieced together from shards of fallen moonstone.
Where faces should have been, there were only pits of endless darkness.
Moonshard Revenants.
Born of the moon's own death throes.
And they were coming straight for the Pack.
"Defensive circle!" Riven barked.
The Pack moved instantly, forming a tight ring of blades and teeth.
Lyra pushed forward, the silver wolf growling low at her side.
There was no time for fear.
No time for doubt.
Only survival.
The first Revenant hit the line like a battering ram, sending two wolves flying.
Kael leapt to meet it, his axe flashing—but the blade skittered harmlessly off the creature's crystalline hide.
Lyra darted in low, slashing at exposed joints.
Her dagger cracked stone, but barely slowed the thing.
More Revenants surged behind the first, their inhuman shrieks rattling the very bones of the earth.
For every one they felled, two more rose.
Lyra fought with everything she had.
Claws. Teeth. Blade.
The silver wolf became a blur of silver light and fury, tearing into the Revenants with savage grace.
But it wasn't enough.
The Pack was being pushed back, step by bloody step.
Then —
A Revenant cornered Maela, driving her against a fallen tree.
Lyra's vision blurred red.
Without thinking, she let go.
Something inside her — something ancient and terrible — ripped free.
The world slowed to a crawl.
She saw the Revenant's blade descending toward Maela's throat.
And she moved faster than thought.
She crossed the clearing in a blink, slamming into the Revenant with enough force to shatter stone.
The creature screamed, crumpling into shards.
The Pack froze, staring at her.
At the faint silver glow that now wreathed her skin.
At the inhuman flicker in her eyes.
Lyra gasped, staggering back.
The power receded — but not before she saw the fear bloom across the faces of her Packmates.
Even Maela.
Especially Maela.
Lyra turned away, bile rising in her throat.
She barely noticed Riven stepping between her and the others, his axe raised not at her, but at the Revenants still charging.
"We survive first," he growled. "Judge later."
The Pack rallied, battered and bleeding, but not broken.
They fought as one.
And slowly, the tide turned.
When the last Revenant shattered into dust, the camp lay in ruins.
Bodies littered the ground — wolves and monsters alike.
The Pack gathered in silence, nursing wounds both seen and unseen.
Tamsin approached, his blade sheathed but his hand never straying far from the hilt.
"You saved us," he said grudgingly.
"But at what cost?"
Lyra didn't answer.
She didn't know.
Later, when the fires burned low and the dead were buried under cairns of stone, Lyra stood alone at the edge of the ridge.
The silver wolf sat beside her, silent.
Above them, the Savage Moon wept silver tears across the sky.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" she whispered to the wolf.
It nuzzled her hand, its fur warm against her trembling fingers.
Lyra closed her eyes.
Visions burned behind her lids.
Cities drowning in blood.
A crown of fire.
Her own hands — soaked in red.
She was Moonforged.
A creature born of two worlds, belonging to neither.
And now, the weight of destiny pressed against her shoulders like a blade poised to fall.
Behind her, footsteps crunched softly on the stone.
Riven.
He said nothing, just stood there, silent.
Finally, Lyra spoke.
"I don't know if I can save them," she admitted, voice raw.
"I don't even know if I can save myself."
Riven's hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder.
"You don't have to do it alone," he said.
"And if you turn into something we can't recognize… we'll stop you."
The words should have chilled her.
But strangely, they brought a kind of comfort.
Accountability.
Family.
Somewhere beyond the broken mountains, dark wings stirred against a crimson sky.
The Black Crowned King watched and waited, his patience infinite.
"Soon," he murmured.
"The Bloodborn Queen will kneel or burn."
And the Savage Moon dipped lower, its song a dirge that only the damned could hear.
Lyra stood at the edge of the ridge long after Riven left, the silver wolf pressing against her leg.
In the distance, the Savage Moon sagged lower, its light sickly and pale, painting the world in shades of cold blue and gray.
The howls of the Pack echoed faintly behind her, but Lyra felt… apart.
Separate.
"I am not one of them anymore," she thought, bitterness twisting in her gut.
Not fully.
Maybe she never had been.
Memories flooded her —
Running through the forests as a child, bare feet pounding the earth.
Learning to hunt, to fight, to live by the Pack's laws.
Tamsin teaching her to set traps.
Maela sneaking her extra food after a harsh winter.
Riven covering for her reckless mistakes.
They were her family.
And yet, the more her power grew, the more the distance between them widened — an invisible chasm she could not cross.
Maybe someday, they would be forced to choose between loyalty to their blood and survival.
Maybe that choice would destroy them all.
Lyra clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
No.
She would not let that happen.
If her blood was cursed — if her fate was to bring ruin — then she would leave before it came to that.
She would walk into the wilderness alone, if she had to.
Better to be a lone wolf than to watch the people she loved fall because of her.
Better to bleed in silence than to damn them all.
The silver wolf whined softly, sensing her sorrow.
Lyra knelt, wrapping her arms around the creature's warm neck.
"I'm not ready," she whispered.
The wolf licked her cheek, its touch gentle, grounding.
Maybe she didn't have to be ready.
Maybe she just had to keep moving forward — one step at a time, through the darkness.
A cold wind swept over the ridge, carrying with it the scent of distant smoke.
Lyra rose slowly, her silhouette stark against the bleeding moon.
In the coming days, blood would fall like rain.
Old gods would stir from their graves.
And choices would be carved in flesh and fire.
But tonight, she allowed herself one final moment of peace.
One last breath before the storm.
She turned back toward the camp, the silver wolf at her side.
And the Savage Moon, cracked and dying, wept quietly above.