Lyra left before dawn.
No farewells.
No goodbyes.
Only the silent gaze of those she had once called family, burning into her back as she disappeared into the mist.
The silver wolf padded silently at her side, its presence the only comfort she had left.
The woods closed around them — twisted, gnarled things that clawed at the sky like the bones of dead gods.
Ahead, the path to the Seer's Hollow lay hidden beneath layers of legend and fear.
A place forbidden to all but the desperate.
A place where answers came at a terrible cost.
By midday, the mist thickened into a suffocating fog.
The trees bled sap the color of black ink.
The ground itself seemed to breathe, exhaling cold that bit into Lyra's skin.
She pressed forward, every step a battle against the pull of despair.
The silver wolf snarled low as they crossed an invisible boundary — a ring of dead trees where nothing grew, nothing sang.
Beyond it, the Hollow waited.
The world changed.
The air grew thick with the scent of rot and old magic.
The sky darkened though the sun still hung above.
Whispers slithered through the mist — half-formed voices, promises of power, threats of doom.
Lyra ignored them, focusing only on the path ahead.
She had not come for their bargains.
She had come for the truth.
At the center of the Hollow, she found the Seer.
Or what was left of him.
A figure cloaked in rags, seated upon a throne of twisted roots and bones.
His face was a ruin of scars and empty sockets, but somehow he saw her — peering through the veil of reality with something older than eyes.
The silver wolf growled, hackles raised.
Lyra stepped forward, forcing her voice steady.
"I seek the truth of my blood," she said.
The Seer laughed — a hollow, rasping sound that shook the bones of the earth.
"You seek what should remain buried," the Seer croaked.
"You carry the mark of the Firstborn. The blood of the Hollowed King runs in your veins."
Lyra froze.
The Hollowed King?
She had heard the old stories — myths of a wolf who had conquered death itself, who had become something… other.
A god.
A monster.
Both.
And now, that cursed legacy lived on inside her.
"You are heir to a crown forged in madness," the Seer continued, voice rising to a frenzied whisper.
"You will either rule this world… or raze it to ash."
Lyra's hands clenched at her sides.
"I never asked for this," she said.
The Seer's ruined mouth twisted into a smile.
"Destiny does not require your consent."
Lightning forked through the blackened sky.
The earth trembled.
From the shadows beyond the Hollow, shapes stirred — things that had once been wolves but had long since forgotten the mercy of death.
Their eyes glowed with a sickly green light.
Their bodies twisted, broken, yet still moving.
The Hollowed Ones.
The Seer's children.
And now, Lyra realized, her inheritance.
"You cannot run from what you are," the Seer whispered.
"You can only choose how it ends."
The silver wolf stepped between Lyra and the advancing shadows, lips pulled back in a snarl.
Lyra drew a deep breath, feeling the shard pulse against her heart.
The power of the Hollowed King stirred in her blood — wild, ancient, hungry.
She could seize it.
Bend it to her will.
Become something greater than any Alpha who had come before her.
Or she could let it consume her — and lose herself to the madness forever.
"Choose," the Seer hissed.
"Choose, Bloodmarked."
The Hollowed Ones crept closer, their twisted forms reaching for her, mouths open in silent, endless hunger.
The sky cracked, spilling darkness.
The ground split.
The Savage Moon rose — enormous, bleeding red, devouring the stars.
And in that moment, Lyra knew:
There was no going back.
Only forward.
Only through.
Only blood.
She raised the shard high above her head.
It blazed with a terrible light.
The Hollowed Ones shrieked.
The silver wolf howled.
And Lyra screamed — a raw, primal sound torn from the depths of her soul — as the power of the Hollowed King poured into her, searing away everything she had been, forging something new from the ashes.
A queen.
A monster.
A savior.
A destroyer.
When the light died, Lyra stood alone in the ruined Hollow.
The Seer was gone.
The Hollowed Ones had fled into the mist.
Only the silver wolf remained, watching her with wary eyes.
And Lyra — Bloodmarked, heir to the Savage Moon — turned her face to the heavens and made her vow:
"I will not be their pawn.
I will not be their monster.
I will forge my own fate — or die trying."
The Savage Moon burned above her, a bloody eye in the endless dark.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hungering.
As the last echoes of her vow faded into the night, Lyra staggered.
The rush of power had left her hollowed out — trembling, gasping.
Every heartbeat felt like a drumbeat against her ribs, echoing with a new, terrible rhythm.
Something ancient now stirred inside her veins.
Not fully awake yet — but restless, impatient.
Waiting for her to falter.
Waiting to claim her.
The silver wolf approached, lowering its head in a gesture of wary respect.
Its golden eyes held no judgment — only understanding.
It had seen what she had done.
It had felt the shift in the air, the reweaving of fate around her.
And still, it chose to stand beside her.
Lyra reached out, burying her fingers in its thick fur.
A silent promise passed between them:
Whatever comes… we face it together.
But even as she found strength in that bond, Lyra knew the true battle was only beginning.
The Seer's words echoed inside her skull, a relentless chant she could not silence:
"You are heir to a crown forged in madness."
"You will either rule this world… or raze it to ash."
The path forward was no longer just survival.
It was transformation.
It was war.
The mist thickened again, swallowing the Hollow behind her.
Lyra turned away from the ruins, from the ghosts and the bones, from the broken promises of the past.
She had no more use for prophecy.
No more patience for fear.
She would carve her own legend into the marrow of the world — with claw, and tooth, and fire.
And when the Savage Moon next rose, the Pack would see her not as a curse…
…but as their only hope.
Still, as she walked into the night, a voice whispered at the edge of her mind.
Not the Seer.
Not the Hollowed Ones.
Her own voice — older, darker, colder.
"How long until you lose yourself?"
"How long until you become the monster they fear?"
"How long, Lyra Bloodmarked, until you stop fighting what you were born to be?"
Lyra gritted her teeth, forcing the whispers down.
She still had time.
Still had a choice.
But deep inside, she knew:
Every step she took…
Every battle she fought…
Every drop of blood she spilled…
Brought her closer to the edge.
Closer to the moment she would no longer recognize the face staring back from the mirror.
Closer to the queen of ruin the Hollow Ones longed to unleash upon the world.
And when that day came…
No Pack.
No Alpha.
No god beneath the Savage Moon would be able to stand against her.
Or save her.