Chapter 3 3

The hall of the Blackmoor fortress was eerily quiet. Torches crackled along the walls, casting wavering shadows over stone pillars carved with snarling wolves and moon phases. Lyra followed Draven and Elder Corvin Nightshade into a chamber at the heart of the keep - a place that smelled of old magic, cedar, and something sharp and metallic she couldn't name.

A round table of black stone stood in the center, etched with ancient runes that seemed to shimmer faintly in the torchlight. Corvin gestured for them to sit. Draven lowered himself into a chair with a grimace - his wounds from the fight with Magnus hadn't fully healed. Lyra hesitated before taking the seat beside him.

Corvin stood across from them, his dark robes pooling at his feet like a shadow. His eyes glowed a pale silver in the dim light, and his lined face was grave. "What happened tonight cannot be ignored. The Crimson Fang attacked in greater numbers than we've seen in decades. And Magnus Bloodfang's challenge was clear: he means to see the Evernight line destroyed."

Lyra swallowed hard. "Why? What did my family ever do to him?"

Corvin's gaze pierced her. "It's not what they did - it's what they are. The Evernight bloodline carries a connection to Luna herself. In the old days, your ancestors could call on moonfire to heal or destroy, to shield allies or strike down enemies. With each generation, the power was thought to have faded. But tonight, you proved it hasn't."

Lyra remembered the silver blast that had thrown Magnus across the battlefield. The memory felt unreal. She rubbed her hands together, half-expecting the moonlight to spark again.

Draven's jaw clenched. "The prophecy speaks of an Evernight heir who will awaken the Moon's Wrath. A child of the blood moon, born to either reunite the packs or bring them to ruin."

"And which am I supposed to be?" Lyra asked quietly, meeting his storm-dark eyes.

Corvin didn't answer immediately. He lifted a scroll from his robes, its edges frayed with age. He unrolled it with reverence, revealing faded symbols and looping script. "The prophecy says only this:

'Under the blood moon's rise shall the last moonchild awaken,

Her light a blade, her heart the key,

To bind the fractured or break them free.'

It does not say which path you will take."

Lyra's heart pounded with a cold dread. She had never wanted power. Never asked for destiny. But now it felt like the weight of every wolf in the forest pressed on her shoulders.

Draven reached out, hesitated, then took her hand. His palm was warm, calloused, grounding. "We'll figure it out. Together."

Corvin's gaze flicked between them, unreadable. "Time is against us. Magnus won't rest until you're dead or captured. And if the other packs learn an Evernight heir has survived, they may come for her, too."

Lyra pulled her hand back, voice sharp with frustration. "Then teach me. I need to learn how to control this - the power, the shifting - everything. I won't hide while people die for me."

Draven's eyes glinted with something fierce and proud. "Then we start at dawn."

Dawn came cold and pale. Mist curled low over the training grounds as Lyra stepped onto the packed earth. Warriors gathered in a loose circle, curious but wary, their eyes flicking between her and Draven.

He stood across from her, dressed in dark leathers that molded to his powerful frame. His face was set, but his eyes softened when they met hers. "Your first lesson is control," he said. "Both in human form and wolf."

She squared her shoulders, ignoring the sting of scratches still healing on her arms. "I'm ready."

He stalked forward, movements predatory. "Your senses are heightened now. Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear."

Lyra obeyed. She tried to block out the sound of her own ragged breathing. Gradually, the world expanded: boots shifting in the dirt, the flutter of a crow's wings high above, the heartbeat of the warrior nearest her - fast, uneven, betraying his nervousness.

She opened her eyes. "I hear... everything."

A small smile ghosted over Draven's lips. "Good. Now your sense of smell."

She inhaled - and almost staggered at the onslaught. Damp earth. Burning torches. The coppery tang of old blood. The warm musk of Draven, spiced with pine and storm. The scent curled around her senses, dizzying and intoxicating.

She exhaled shakily. "It's... a lot."

"It will always be intense," Draven said quietly, stepping closer. "But you'll learn to filter what you need."

They trained until the sun climbed high, warriors murmuring approval as Lyra's speed, reflexes, and awareness improved with each exercise. But every success came with moments of frustration: a slip of concentration that made her fangs snap out uncontrollably; a surge of power that nearly flattened a practice dummy.

By midday, her clothes clung with sweat. Draven called a break, leading her to a fountain at the edge of the grounds. She splashed cold water on her face, shivering as droplets trickled down her neck.

"You're pushing me hard," she said, breathless. "Why?"

He looked out across the valley, eyes dark with memories. "Because the first time you face Magnus again, he won't go easy on you. And because I've already lost too many people I care about."

Her breath caught. "Care about?"

His gaze cut back to her, raw and unguarded. "Yes," he said roughly. "Care about."

They returned to the fortress as clouds gathered, turning the sky the color of iron. Thunder rumbled low in the distance. Warriors hurried along the walls, reinforcing gates and sharpening weapons.

In the hall, Elder Corvin waited with a visitor Lyra had never seen: a tall, lanky man with sandy hair, wide eyes, and a pack slung over his shoulder.

"Lyra," Corvin said, "this is Finn Ashwood. He arrived from your old village."

Lyra's heart leapt. "Finn?"

He rushed forward, taking her hands in his. "Lyra, thank Luna you're alive. They said you'd gone mad. That you killed people." His eyes shone with relief. "But I knew there had to be more."

She squeezed his hands, tears welling. "It's true. I'm... I'm not what I thought I was."

Finn's eyes flicked to Draven warily, then back to her. "Your guardian, Old Maribel - she tried to stop them, but the Crimson Fang burned the cottage. She... didn't make it."

Lyra felt the world tilt. The woman who had raised her, comforted her nightmares, taught her the names of flowers - gone. A sob tore from her throat.

Draven's arms wrapped around her from behind, strong and solid. She leaned into him, shaking. His warmth seeped into her bones, even as the grief hollowed her chest.

That night, storms rolled across the valley, lightning splitting the sky. Lyra stood at her window, hair whipping around her face, watching the rain lash the fortress walls. Memories of Maribel's laughter and gentle hands filled her mind, each one a blade.

A soft knock came at the door. She didn't turn as Draven stepped inside. He crossed the room silently and stood beside her, eyes on the storm.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice low.

She nodded, tears lost in the rain's roar. "I feel like I've lost everything."

"You haven't lost me," he murmured.

She looked up, startled, and found him closer than she realized. His eyes glowed faintly in the lightning's flash. The moment stretched, electric. His hand rose to cup her cheek, thumb brushing away tears. "I won't let you face this alone."

Their lips met like a storm - fierce, desperate, hungry. The kiss seared her to her core, chasing away the cold emptiness. His hands buried in her hair, hers fisted in his shirt. Every part of her ached for him, burned for him.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers. "Sleep," he rasped. "Tomorrow, we begin again."

In the deepest hours of the night, she dreamed again: a figure cloaked in silver light, standing in the ruins of a battlefield. The figure turned - her mother's face, pale and sad.

"The blood moon has chosen you, Lyra," Astrid whispered. "But the choice is still yours. Unite them... or watch them fall."

She woke with a gasp, moonlight streaming through the window. A shadow moved in the corner of her room. She tensed - but it was Draven, asleep in a chair by the door, one hand resting on the hilt of a dagger. Watching over her.

She felt something fragile and terrifying unfurl in her chest: hope.

Meanwhile, deep in the Crimson Fang's lair, Magnus Bloodfang paced before his throne of black stone. Seraphine Darkvale lounged nearby, her emerald eyes glittering.

"The girl's power grows," Magnus snarled. "If she masters it, we could lose everything."

Seraphine smirked, twisting a lock of dark hair around her finger. "Then we won't let her. Let her think she's safe in Blackmoor's arms. We'll bleed her power out of her - and break Blackmoor while we're at it."

She rose, crossing to him with sinuous grace. "Give me time, Alpha. I'll find her weaknesses. Every heart has them."

Magnus's lips curled. "Do not fail me."

Far above them, the blood moon faded into dawn's pale light. But its shadow lingered, a promise of the darkness yet to come.