The Savage Moon still hung broken in the sky as Lyra led the scouting party through the dead forest.
The silver wolf padded silently beside her, ears twitching at every sound.
Behind her, Maela, Kael, and three other warriors moved in tense formation — eyes sharp, hands never straying far from their weapons.
No one spoke.
Not after the Revenants.
Not after seeing what Lyra had become.
And certainly not after Tamsin's harsh whispers the night before.
"She's dangerous. We all saw it. She's not Pack anymore. She's something else."
The forest around them was wrong.
The trees — once ancient and mighty — now loomed like skeletal hands clawing at the sky.
The ground was dry and cracked, littered with brittle leaves that whispered secrets as the wind stirred them.
Even the air smelled wrong: thick with the metallic tang of old blood and broken magic.
They were getting close.
To the Forgotten Temples.
To the Hollow Gate.
Lyra paused at a fork in the trail, frowning.
The Seer's visions had been fragmented at best — flashes of crumbling stone, whispers of half-forgotten names.
But she remembered one thing clearly:
"When the dead trees weep, the path will open."
Lyra crouched, brushing her fingers over the cracked earth.
There.
Tiny rivulets of moisture seeped up from the ground, forming dark stains like tears.
The trees were weeping.
"This way," she murmured.
Kael hesitated — but a sharp look from Maela kept him silent.
The Pack followed.
They moved deeper into the woods, the light dimming until it seemed they walked in perpetual twilight.
Hours blurred together.
Twice, they had to fight — first against a nest of bone-wasps, then a twisted deer-thing with too many eyes and a mouth that never stopped screaming.
Both times, Lyra led the charge.
Both times, her Packmates watched her with a fear they didn't bother to hide.
By the time they reached the clearing, the moon had dipped so low it seemed ready to fall from the sky.
Before them stood the Hollow Gate.
A massive arch of black stone, covered in ancient glyphs that pulsed faintly with sickly blue light.
Beyond the arch, mist coiled and writhed — thick, cold, and impenetrable.
The silver wolf whined low in its throat, tail tucked between its legs.
Even the forest seemed to recoil from the gate.
Lyra stepped forward.
The glyphs flickered brighter at her approach, humming in low, discordant tones.
She felt the power thrumming through the air — ancient, hungry.
Waiting.
Kael grabbed her arm.
"Are you insane?" he hissed. "We don't even know what's in there!"
Lyra shook him off.
"We have no choice," she said quietly. "The Seer said answers lie beyond the Hollow Gate."
"Or death," Maela muttered under her breath.
"Maybe both," Lyra agreed grimly.
She turned back to the Pack.
"You don't have to come."
No one moved.
Pride — or stubbornness — held them in place.
Fine.
She stepped toward the gate.
The mist parted like a living thing, tendrils recoiling from her touch.
And she passed through the Hollow Gate.
On the other side, the world was wrong.
The sky was a shattered mirror, stars bleeding across the void.
The ground was made of bone-dust and broken dreams, each step sending up soft, mournful cries.
Shadows shifted and coiled around them — but never touched.
In the distance, ruins sprawled across the landscape: the Forgotten Temples, half-sunken into the ash.
But standing between them and the temples were the Hollow Ones.
They rose from the dust like nightmares given flesh.
Humanoid shapes, but wrong — too tall, too thin, their faces featureless except for gaping mouths that dripped endless darkness.
Their movements were jerky, marionette-like, as if pulled by invisible strings.
And as they saw the Pack, they began to sing.
A low, keening wail that twisted inside Lyra's skull, setting her teeth on edge.
The Hollow Ones.
Guardians of the dead gates.
Testers of souls.
And they had seen her.
The Pack formed a defensive circle instinctively.
Weapons drawn.
Eyes wild.
"We can't fight them," Maela hissed. "Not here."
Lyra shook her head.
"We don't have to."
She stepped forward, heart hammering.
The Hollow Ones swayed as one, their song rising in pitch.
The silver wolf whined desperately, but Lyra ignored it.
She remembered the Seer's words.
"Only the blood-marked may pass unchallenged."
She raised her hand — and silver light flared from her palm.
The Hollow Ones froze.
Then, slowly, they knelt.
Kael made a sound halfway between a sob and a curse.
Maela just stared, wide-eyed, her dagger hanging forgotten at her side.
Lyra moved forward slowly, the Hollow Ones parting before her like reeds before the tide.
The Pack followed, silent, shell-shocked.
Through the broken remains of the Forgotten Temples they walked, past crumbling statues and shattered altars.
At the heart of the ruins, Lyra found it:
A stone pedestal, ancient and cracked.
Upon it sat a crown.
Forged from broken moonlight and black iron.
Waiting.
For her.
She reached out — then stopped.
Her reflection stared back at her from the polished surface of the crown.
But it wasn't her.
It was her — if the darkness won.
If she gave in.
If she let the Savage Moon claim her soul.
Her fingers hovered inches above the metal.
This is what they fear, a voice whispered in her mind.
This is what you were born for.
A hand closed around her wrist, yanking her back.
Riven.
"Not yet," he said roughly.
"You're not ready."
Lyra blinked, reality snapping back into place.
The Hollow Ones still knelt.
The Pack still watched.
And the crown still waited.
Patient.
Eternal.
Lyra backed away slowly.
Not today.
Not yet.
But soon.
As they left the ruins, the mist swallowed the Hollow Gate behind them.
The Savage Moon hung lower still, a bleeding wound in the heavens.
And far away, in the crumbling courts of the old gods, something ancient stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
The game had begun.
And Lyra, blood-marked and moon-cursed, was its unwilling queen.
The journey back through the dead woods felt longer than the way in.
Each step weighed heavier, like invisible hands tried to drag them back into the mist.
The silver wolf stayed close to Lyra's heels, fur bristling.
Even the Pack moved in tight, uneasy formation — as if at any moment, something would leap from the shadows and tear them apart.
Maybe it wasn't the Hollow Ones they needed to fear now.
Maybe it was each other.
That night, they made camp in a small hollow shielded by fallen stones.
No one spoke much.
Riven took first watch.
The others huddled in their cloaks, pretending sleep.
But Lyra could feel it — the subtle shift in the air.
The way eyes flickered toward her when they thought she wasn't looking.
The slight pull of bodies inching away from her presence.
She was the blood-marked now.
Chosen by the Hollow Ones.
Marked by the crown she hadn't yet claimed.
And the Pack knew it.
Even if they didn't say it aloud, the fear was already growing like a rot among them.
Lyra sat apart, staring into the dying embers of the fire.
The silver wolf lay at her feet, restless, occasionally lifting its head to growl softly at the darkness.
In her hands, she turned over a small shard of stone she had taken from the Forgotten Temples — a piece of the crown's pedestal, etched with ancient runes.
The runes burned faintly against her skin, though the stone was cold.
The whispers started again.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Calling her.
Claim the crown.
Take your place.
Become what you were meant to be.
Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the shard to her chest.
"No," she whispered.
Not yet.
Not ever — if she could help it.
But deep down, a part of her already knew:
This path had only one ending.
And it was written in blood and broken bone.
Hours later, as the Savage Moon dipped below the horizon, Lyra finally allowed herself to sleep.
But peace did not come.
Instead, she dreamed:
Of silver rivers running red with blood.
Of the Pack, eyes glazed, mouths open in silent screams.
Of herself, standing atop a mountain of bones, the black crown gleaming on her brow.
And the Savage Moon overhead — full, whole, and hungering.
She woke gasping, sweat slick on her skin, heart hammering like a war drum.
The silver wolf stared at her, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Silent.
Accusing.
Somewhere beyond the ridge, a wolf howled — a long, mournful sound that sent shivers racing down her spine.
Not one of the Pack.
Something else.
Something old.
And Lyra knew — without knowing how — that the Hollow Ones had not truly let her go.
They were still watching.
Still waiting.
And so was the crown.
Patient.
Unforgiving.
Inevitable.