The mist hadn't lifted by morning.
It clung to the trees like spider's silk, heavy and damp, muffling sound and warping shape.
Lyra led the Pack back toward the main camp, the path winding between the dead woods and the skeletal cliffs beyond.
No one spoke.
Not after what they had seen.
Not after what they had felt beyond the Hollow Gate.
It was as if something had followed them back — something they could not see, but felt in the marrow of their bones.
A wrongness.
A curse.
When they reached the camp, it was silent.
Too silent.
Dozens of wolves and warriors should have been there — tending fires, sharpening weapons, arguing over rations.
Instead, they found only cold ashes and abandoned tents.
The silver wolf growled low in its throat.
Lyra's heart clenched.
Something was very wrong.
Riven signaled the others to spread out, weapons drawn.
Lyra moved toward the largest tent — the one belonging to the elders.
The flap hung torn and tattered.
Inside, she found blood.
Splattered across the floor.
Smeared across the walls.
And in the center of it all — a body.
Tamsin.
Her throat was torn out, her eyes wide and staring in frozen horror.
A low, broken sound escaped Maela's lips.
Kael backed away, face pale.
Lyra knelt beside the body, fingers brushing the cooling blood.
It hadn't been an animal attack.
No claw marks.
No teeth.
Clean.
Precise.
Assassin's work.
Movement behind her — quick, furtive.
She turned, too late.
A voice barked out:
"Stay where you are!"
Half the remaining Pack — warriors and wolves alike — surrounded her, weapons raised.
Their faces twisted with fear and anger.
At their head stood Corvan, a broad-shouldered hunter with a scar down his cheek.
"You," he spat, pointing a shaking blade at Lyra.
"You brought this on us."
Lyra rose slowly, hands open.
"I didn't kill Tamsin," she said, voice steady.
"Liar!" Corvan shouted.
"We saw you — we saw what you did at the Gate! You're cursed! You're not one of us anymore!"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the Pack.
Accusing eyes.
Snarling lips.
Hands tightening on blades.
Lyra's heart twisted.
They would turn on her.
They already had.
Riven stepped between them, sword drawn.
"Stand down!" he barked.
"She's still Pack!"
"For how long?" Maela whispered, her voice breaking.
Kael said nothing — but he didn't lower his weapon.
Not even for her.
The silver wolf bristled, standing protectively before Lyra.
She placed a hand on its head, feeling its strength steady her.
This was no longer about logic or evidence.
This was fear.
Fear of what she was becoming.
Fear of what she might bring upon them all.
And fear, Lyra knew, was a fire that consumed everything it touched.
"Let me prove it," she said, voice rising over the muttering crowd.
"Give me until the next full moon.
If I haven't cleansed this curse…
If I haven't found who really killed Tamsin…
You can cast me out.
Or kill me."
A heavy silence fell.
The Pack exchanged glances — torn between ancient law and the raw, primal need for survival.
Finally, Corvan growled:
"One moon."
"If you fail," another voice snarled,
"we won't be merciful."
The crowd dispersed, slowly, reluctantly.
But the damage was done.
Where once there had been loyalty and love, now there was only suspicion.
Lyra stood alone amid the ruins of her life, the silver wolf her only companion.
Riven lingered at her side — silent, grim.
"You shouldn't have made that bargain," he said quietly.
"I had no choice," she answered.
She turned her face up to the sky.
The Savage Moon was hidden behind the clouds.
But she could still feel its pull.
Its hunger.
Its promise.
That night, Lyra sat by the cold remains of the fire, the shard from the Hollow Gate clutched in her hand.
The silver wolf slept lightly beside her, one ear twitching at every sound.
And Lyra dreamed again.
Of a throne made of bones.
Of wolves kneeling in chains.
Of herself — crowned and crowned again, in blood and ash.
And far away, the Hollow Ones laughed.
Their song was growing louder.
And soon, Lyra would have no choice but to answer their call.
The hours dragged by, thick and suffocating.
Even with the Pack nearby, Lyra felt utterly alone — adrift in a sea of distrust.
She could hear them whispering in the dark.
Half-truths.
Accusations.
Fear sharpened into malice.
Every glance held suspicion.
Every smile was tinged with menace.
Even Riven, standing at a careful distance, seemed uncertain now — weighing her loyalty against his own survival.
It was only a matter of time before one of them made their move.
The silver wolf stirred beside her, ears pricked, muscles tense.
A low growl rumbled from its chest, vibrating against the earth.
Lyra tightened her grip on the shard, the runes burning faintly against her skin.
The Hollow Ones were patient — but they were never silent.
Their whispers grew louder each night.
Calling her.
Promising her power beyond imagining.
If she would only surrender.
If she would only become what she was meant to be.
A sudden snap of a twig made Lyra rise to her feet.
A shadow moved at the edge of camp.
She caught a flash of steel — a dagger drawn in the dark.
One of her own.
One of the Pack.
Sent to kill her.
Without thinking, Lyra shifted.
The change rippled through her body, fast and violent.
Bones cracking.
Muscles tearing and reknitting.
Fur bursting from skin.
Pain like molten fire racing through her veins.
She collapsed onto all fours — and the world snapped into sharper focus.
The attacker hesitated — just for a breath — and it was enough.
Lyra lunged.
The fight was brief.
Brutal.
When it was over, the attacker lay at her feet, alive but broken — whimpering in pain.
It was one of the young scouts — barely more than a boy.
Eyes wide with terror.
"I had to," he sobbed.
"They said you'd destroy us all…"
Lyra bared her teeth, a low snarl tearing from her throat.
Then she turned away, disgusted.
The boy crawled back into the shadows, disappearing into the night.
Around the camp, more faces had appeared — drawn by the sounds of the struggle.
None came to help.
None came to comfort.
They only watched.
Silent.
Judging.
Waiting for her to fall.
Lyra shifted back to human form, panting, covered in blood and sweat.
The silver wolf pressed against her side, steady and warm.
Riven approached carefully, eyes wary.
"You can't stay here," he said quietly.
"They won't stop."
Lyra nodded, heart heavy.
She understood now.
The Pack she had fought for — bled for — would never accept her again.
Unless she became something other.
Something stronger.
Something worse.
The shard in her hand pulsed — faintly, but insistently.
Come to us, the Hollow Ones whispered.
Claim your destiny.
Lyra closed her eyes.
And for the first time, she didn't push the voice away.
She listened.
Above her, the Savage Moon pierced through the clouds — cold and pitiless.
A silent witness to her choice.
A herald of the war yet to come.