Chapter 2 2

Lyra lay curled in front of the fireplace, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind restless. Every flicker of flame threw shifting shadows across the walls of the chamber. In those shadows, she kept seeing claws, eyes, and memories of the night's horror. Her ears were too sharp now; every creak of wood, every gust of wind outside sent her pulse racing.

She rose shakily and padded to a window. The moon had begun to sink, but its crimson stain still clung to the horizon, bathing the fortress in an eerie glow. The compound's courtyard below bustled with warriors preparing for a possible attack: armored wolves moved in squads, archers took positions on ramparts, and massive black wolves padded silently through the mist. She shivered. It felt like stepping into an ancient war.

A soft knock came at the door. She tensed. The door opened without waiting for her answer, and a woman stepped inside carrying a tray of food and linens. She was tall, with dark hair streaked with silver, wearing a simple tunic and boots.

"I am Miren," she said in a low, melodic voice. "Alpha Blackmoor asked me to tend to you."

Lyra swallowed, eyes darting to the steaming bowl of stew and fresh bread. Her stomach twisted with hunger she hadn't realized she felt. Miren set the tray on a table and helped her ease into a chair.

"Eat," Miren said. "Your body is still adapting. Shifting for the first time takes more than it gives."

Lyra hesitated but picked up a spoon. The stew was rich and spiced, warming her from the inside. After several ravenous bites, she wiped her mouth, realizing Miren was watching her with shrewd, assessing eyes.

"Why are they after me?" Lyra blurted. "Why does the Crimson Fang want me dead?"

Miren hesitated, then sank into a chair across from her. "You are of the Evernight bloodline. Your ancestors once ruled these lands when all the packs were united under one Alpha King. The Evernight line was powerful - too powerful - and their magic threatened those who wanted to break the unity."

Lyra frowned. "Magic?"

Miren nodded. "Blood magic. Moon magic. Your line was blessed by Luna herself. But during the Nightfall Wars, the Evernights were betrayed. Many were slaughtered, others vanished. Rumors said the last heirs had been hunted to extinction. Clearly, they were wrong."

Lyra stared at her hands, remembering the blood, the claws. "I killed them... the wolves who came for me."

Miren's eyes softened. "You defended yourself. But you must learn control - and fast - or you'll be as dangerous to yourself as to others."

A sound outside the door interrupted them: a pair of boots striding across the stone hall. The door swung open, revealing Draven Blackmoor himself, his dark cloak billowing around him. His gaze pinned Lyra with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"You should not have left your bed," he said, voice low but edged with something like concern.

"I couldn't sleep," she said defensively. "I don't even know if I'll sleep ever again."

He crossed the room and rested his hands on the back of her chair, leaning down until his breath ghosted across her ear. "You will. And you will learn to harness what you are. I won't let them take you."

His words were calm, resolute. Lyra's chest tightened at the quiet promise in his voice. She should have been afraid of him - the Alpha everyone whispered about, the one who'd sworn never to take a mate. Yet everything in her responded to his presence with a raw, frightening need.

A sudden alarm bell pealed across the fortress.

Draven's head snapped up. He straightened, eyes shifting from stormy blue to silver. "Stay here," he ordered. He strode to the door, pausing to bark to Miren, "Don't let her out of your sight."

Then he was gone, moving with predatory speed. The door slammed behind him.

Lyra's breath came faster as a distant roar rose from beyond the walls - a chilling, lupine sound that vibrated through the stones under her feet. She rushed to the window again. Beyond the walls, shadows moved in the mist: shapes too large to be men, yet walking on two legs, gleaming eyes cutting through the darkness.

"Are those Crimson Fang wolves?" Lyra whispered.

Miren's face had gone pale. "They've come earlier than expected."

Below, Blackmoor warriors swarmed to meet the invaders. A chorus of snarls, howls, and the clash of steel against claws rose into the night. Torches flared along the battlements as arrows flew, embedding in the ground and bodies alike.

Lyra's stomach twisted. She couldn't sit here like a caged animal. She needed to do something - but what? She was untrained, unstable, and the last thing Draven needed was to worry about her getting herself killed.

She closed her eyes, trying to center herself. A memory of her mother's voice slipped into her thoughts: "Listen to the moon, Lyra. Feel her power in your blood."

She focused on the moon's glow outside. Deep inside, she felt a spark - a silver ember of something old, powerful. She reached for it. A warmth spread through her chest, then down her arms, until her fingers tingled. The world around her seemed to slow, every sound and scent sharpening.

She opened her eyes. The moonlight streaming through the window shimmered, curling like mist around her arms. Miren gasped, backing away.

"You... you can channel it," Miren whispered, awe-struck. "No Evernight has done that in centuries."

Lyra stared at her glowing hands, then looked outside where Draven now fought on the front lines, a massive black wolf at his side. Even in the chaos, his movements were precise, deadly. Crimson Fang wolves fell around him, but more kept coming.

She had to help.

Before Miren could stop her, Lyra pushed open the door and sprinted down the corridor. Her bare feet slapped stone as she emerged into the courtyard. The scent of blood and burning pitch filled her nose. Warriors clashed in brutal combat: claws slashed, jaws snapped, arrows hissed through the air.

Lyra's eyes found Draven near the shattered outer gate. He faced Alpha Magnus Bloodfang, a towering beast of a man with pale hair and eyes like twin embers. They circled each other, low growls vibrating through the ground.

"Draven Blackmoor," Magnus rumbled, voice carrying across the battlefield. "Step aside and give me the girl. She's an abomination that should never have survived."

Draven bared his fangs. "Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged," Magnus snarled.

They lunged. The impact of their clash sent shockwaves through the earth. Claws met claws, fangs snapped inches from each other's throats. Blood sprayed as they rolled, each trying to pin the other.

Lyra raised her hands. The silver light pooled in her palms, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She focused on Magnus, who had Draven pinned, claws poised for a killing blow.

"Leave him alone!" she shouted.

She thrust her hands forward. A blast of silvery light erupted from her, arcing through the air and striking Magnus square in the chest. He was hurled back like a ragdoll, smashing into a wall with a deafening crack. For a moment, everything went silent. Then chaos resumed.

Draven turned to her, eyes wide. He staggered, bleeding but alive. His gaze locked on her glowing hands. "How... did you do that?"

Lyra gasped, her vision tunneling. The power drained from her in a rush, leaving her dizzy. She sank to her knees.

Crimson Fang wolves howled in rage as Magnus struggled to his feet, fury etched across his twisted face. But the Blackmoor warriors rallied with a roar, pushing the invaders back beyond the walls.

Magnus glared at Lyra, eyes burning with promise. "This isn't over, Evernight. You'll die by my hand, or by the curse that dooms you."

With a final guttural growl, he shifted fully into a monstrous white wolf and retreated into the mist. His warriors followed, limping and bloodied.

When the last of them vanished, an eerie quiet settled over the battlefield. The Blackmoor wolves howled a victory cry that echoed through the valley.

Draven strode to Lyra, his face torn between relief and fury. He fell to his knees before her, gripping her shoulders. "You could have been killed," he rasped. His eyes searched hers, as if trying to memorize every line of her face.

"I couldn't let you die," she whispered, voice hoarse. Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot against the night air.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breath ragged. "Don't ever risk yourself like that again," he growled. "I couldn't bear it."

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them, the night and the fading blood moon overhead. Her pulse thudded wildly as his scent wrapped around her, warm and dark and intoxicating.

But a cough interrupted them. Elder Corvin Nightshade stepped into the courtyard, dark robes swirling, his eyes glowing faintly. "Alpha Blackmoor. We need to talk. Now."

Draven's jaw tensed. He rose, pulling Lyra gently to her feet. "Later," he said quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

Corvin's eyes flicked to Lyra, lingering on the silver sheen still fading from her hands. His voice was grave. "The Evernight power has awakened - and the prophecy is in motion."

Lyra shivered at the way he said it. Draven placed a hand on her back as he led her inside. Around them, warriors carried their wounded, repaired barricades, and began preparing for the next attack.