Chapter 4 4

The next morning dawned gray and thick with fog. The storm had passed, but a strange silence had settled over the Blackmoor Fortress. Lyra awoke to find the chair where Draven had been sitting now empty. A faint indentation in the cushion told her he hadn't been gone long.

She stretched and stood, the soreness in her limbs dull but manageable. Her dreams still clung to her like a second skin - the vision of her mother's warning, the battlefield, the blood moon watching from above.

"The choice is still yours..."

But it didn't feel like she had a choice. War was coming whether she wanted it or not.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Miren entered with a fresh set of clothing - soft black leggings, a long-sleeved tunic, and a thick leather belt cinched with silver clasps.

"Alpha Blackmoor has summoned you," Miren said. "To the council chamber."

Lyra frowned. "Am I in trouble?"

Miren shook her head. "No. But word is spreading. The Elders want to speak with you. Not all are pleased to have an Evernight under this roof."

Lyra exhaled slowly and began to change. Her hands shook slightly, but she forced herself to breathe. She wouldn't cower. Not anymore.

The council chamber was a half-circle of stone and firelight. Seven high-backed chairs were occupied by the pack's elders, each marked with their own crest. Elder Corvin stood at the head, his face unreadable. Draven leaned against a pillar to the side, arms folded, his presence as commanding as ever.

Lyra stepped forward. All eyes fell on her.

"Lyra Evernight," Corvin began, his voice resonating across the stone. "You have power in your veins that has not stirred in generations. Last night, you used moonfire - untrained, instinctive, and nearly lethal."

One of the Elders - a grizzled man with a scar bisecting his brow - leaned forward. "Power like that doesn't come without cost. How do we know she won't burn this entire pack to ash if she loses control again?"

Another, a sharp-eyed woman named Elder Vira, narrowed her gaze. "Or worse... what if she's already marked by the prophecy's darker path?"

Lyra stood taller. "You think I want this? That I asked to be hunted, to lose everyone I've ever known, to become a walking target?" Her voice rose with passion. "I didn't choose to be born with this blood - but I will choose to fight with it."

A silence fell. Draven straightened, stepping forward beside her.

"She saved my life," he said, voice quiet but firm. "She saved many lives last night. You question her power, but you forget - it was her power that turned the tide."

Corvin nodded. "And that is why we must train her. Guide her. Protect her. Whether we want to admit it or not, the prophecy has awakened... and she is at its center."

The scarred Elder grunted, but sat back in his chair.

Lyra felt the weight of their gazes, but also something else: a spark of respect. It wasn't much, but it was more than she'd had yesterday.

Later that afternoon, Draven brought her to a secluded glade deep within the forest. Mist still clung to the ground, and tall pines encircled the space like sentinels.

"This was my mother's training ground," Draven said, brushing snow-melt off a mossy stone. "She was the last of the Shadow Sentinels - warriors trained to channel both wolf and magic. She believed the forest was the best teacher."

Lyra glanced around. The air here felt older, thicker, almost charged.

Draven handed her a short dagger with a black hilt. "Lesson two: focus through a conduit. Until you learn to call moonfire at will, channel it through steel."

She weighed the blade in her palm. "And if I lose control?"

"Then you'll singe the trees," he said with a faint smirk. "Or me. But I'll survive."

They trained for hours - striking, parrying, breathing in rhythm with nature. Draven showed her how to listen not just to sound, but to energy - the shift of life around her. With each movement, she felt a thread pull taut inside her, like something ancient stirring in her blood.

At one point, as she struck at a phantom target, silver light crackled down the blade. Draven's eyes widened.

"There," he said, stepping behind her. He placed his hands over hers, guiding the motion again. "Feel that current. That's moonfire. Don't push it. Invite it."

They moved as one, the blade humming softly. Lyra felt the pull between them again - not just physical, but something deeper. A tether that had begun the moment he found her in that clearing.

"You're not afraid of me," she whispered.

He met her gaze. "No. But I'm afraid of what might happen if I lose you."

The words sent a shiver down her spine.

That evening, as dusk painted the sky in shades of indigo, Lyra wandered the edge of the fortress walls. The scent of pine and damp stone filled her lungs.

She found Finn in the lower courtyard, seated on a bench near the stables, scribbling in a leather-bound notebook. He looked up as she approached.

"I'm glad you're still here," she said.

He gave her a small smile. "And I'm glad you're still you."

She sat beside him. "Do you believe everything they're saying? About me? The prophecy?"

Finn hesitated. "I believe you've always been different. Not just because of magic, but because you care. You're brave - stupidly brave, sometimes - but it's always been for others."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

Finn hesitated again. "And this Draven guy... he seems intense."

Lyra laughed under her breath. "He is. But he's also... loyal. And good. In a way I didn't expect."

Finn didn't say anything for a moment. "Just promise me you won't lose yourself in all of this. No matter what the prophecy says, you're still Lyra."

"I promise."

But deep down, a part of her wondered if she could keep that promise. Because each day, the magic inside her grew stronger - and so did the sense that something was coming. Something they weren't ready for.

That night, another dream took her.

She stood in a field of silver grass beneath a sky that pulsed with stars. Before her stood a great wolf, fur the color of the moon, eyes ancient and knowing.

"You are the last light in the dark," it said. "But light is not always kind. Be careful who you trust - even the ones who walk beside you."

The wolf howled once, and the stars shattered like glass.

Lyra woke gasping, the echo of the howl still ringing in her ears. She sat up, heart racing.

"Draven?" she asked.

But as the figure turned, the eyes that met hers were not Draven's deep gray.

They were green - glowing - and filled with malice.

Seraphine Darkvale.

Before Lyra could scream, Seraphine vanished into mist.