Chapter 1 1

The night air felt like a blade against Lyra Evernight's skin. She ran barefoot across the frost-bitten forest floor, every ragged breath pluming like smoke beneath the looming crimson glow of the blood moon. Her heart pounded with primal terror, a rhythm that seemed to echo the distant howls splitting the night.

Branches lashed at her face, thorns tore at her dress, but Lyra barely felt the pain. Her only thought was to keep moving. Her mind screamed with a single truth she could no longer deny: she was being hunted.

For twenty-two years, she'd believed herself ordinary - just another orphaned girl taken in by the kindly old herbalist in the village of Ashwood Hollow. She'd always felt a strange pull toward the forest, an unspoken connection to the moon, but she'd dismissed it as childish fancy. That illusion shattered tonight.

Earlier that evening, the village square had been alive with whispers: the blood moon would rise at midnight. Superstitions said it heralded chaos, madness, or omens of death. Lyra's guardian, Old Maribel, had tried to keep her inside, but an unfamiliar heat had bloomed beneath Lyra's skin - a fever that made her bones ache and her senses sharpen. Her hearing had caught whispers miles away; her vision had picked up the flutter of bats overhead. Then came the tremors. The scent of everything - flowers, earth, even blood - overwhelmed her. And when her bones began to break and reform, she'd fled the cottage in terror, desperate for the forest's shelter.

That's when the Crimson Fang Pack found her.

The first time she heard the howls, she thought they were wolves. But the shifting shadows revealed massive beasts with eyes like burning coals - wolves too large, too intelligent. She knew instinctively: these creatures were hunting her. And the realization that they were not normal wolves, but werewolves, terrified her more than the transformation tearing through her own body.

She stumbled into a clearing lit like a crimson sea beneath the moon. There, her legs gave out. Agony wracked her body as claws pushed through her fingertips, fangs erupted in her mouth, and her eyes shifted from hazel to an eerie silver. She screamed, a feral sound that rolled through the forest like thunder.

Then - the final snap of bone, and everything went black.

Lyra woke to silence. Her head throbbed, and the taste of iron coated her tongue. She looked down to find her hands slick with blood - not hers, but the thick, dark lifeblood of the beasts lying around her. Three massive wolves, their eyes glassy and unseeing, bodies torn apart by claws that matched the ones now retracting into her fingers.

Her heart lurched. She had done this. She, who had never hurt anyone, who had never even killed a rabbit for supper.

A rustle in the underbrush made her whirl around, her senses still feral. She saw a figure step into the clearing, tall and cloaked in shadows. A man. His presence made the forest itself seem to hold its breath.

He emerged into the moonlight: broad-shouldered, dark-haired, eyes the color of midnight storms. His face was all sharp planes and cold beauty, but his expression was unreadable - neither predator nor savior. This was Alpha Draven Blackmoor, though Lyra didn't know his name yet. Only that his presence drew her gaze like a magnet, made something deep in her chest ache with longing.

"I thought I smelled Crimson Fang filth," he said, voice low and dark. His eyes flicked to her, then lingered. "But I did not expect... you."

She bared her teeth instinctively. "Who are you?" Her voice was hoarse, edged with panic.

He tilted his head. "Someone who might save you - or kill you. That depends on your answers."

A snarl tore from her throat before she could stop it. She backed away, but her legs trembled. Draven stepped closer, boots crushing dried leaves. He moved with the dangerous, fluid grace of a born predator.

"Stay away from me!" she rasped.

He raised one dark brow. "You think you can fight me?" His tone was not mocking, but almost curious. He studied her like a puzzle. "You've only just shifted for the first time. You can barely stand."

He was right. She sank to her knees, exhaustion crashing over her. The forest swayed around her as she struggled to breathe. Blood. Fear. The scent of him - a stormy, dark musk - all tangled in her senses.

Draven sighed, then crouched before her, his face softening a fraction. "You have no idea what you are, do you?"

She glared up at him, panting. "A monster."

"No," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch oddly gentle. "You are Lyra Evernight, last of the Evernight bloodline. And you are more important than you could ever imagine."

In the distance, more howls rose - this time, a chorus of dozens. Draven's head snapped up. His eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight. "We don't have time. They'll come for you again. Crimson Fang won't stop until you're dead."

He pulled her effortlessly to her feet. She winced at the heat in his grip, but didn't resist. Draven scanned the treetops, nostrils flaring as he scented the air.

"We must go. Now."

She staggered beside him as they moved through the forest. He kept one hand on her waist, guiding her quickly but silently. Lyra's mind spun. Evernight bloodline? What did that mean? Why did these wolves want her dead? She tried to ask, but every breath burned in her chest.

They reached a ridge overlooking a valley shrouded in silver mist. Nestled in the valley was a fortress-like compound built of dark stone - moonlight shimmered on its high walls and watchtowers. Torches burned along the parapets.

"My territory," Draven said, voice like steel. "The Crimson Fang won't dare follow you here."

He led her through a secret entrance. Wolves - men and women with feral eyes - appeared from the shadows, some shifting mid-stride. Lyra flinched, but Draven's arm kept her steady. He barked orders in a language that rumbled like thunder. The warriors dispersed, forming a protective perimeter.

Inside the fortress, warmth enveloped her. Fires blazed in iron braziers, tapestries depicting wolves and moons adorned the walls. But everywhere Lyra looked, she saw wary eyes watching her - assessing, suspicious.

Draven escorted her to a massive chamber. A fireplace crackled at one end, a thick fur spread before it. The air smelled of pine, smoke, and him.

He released her gently. "Rest," he commanded. "We'll speak when you're stronger."

"I... I don't even know who you are," she whispered.

He paused at the door, his dark gaze intense. "I am Alpha Draven Blackmoor, leader of the Blackmoor Pack. And you, Lyra Evernight, are under my protection."

The door closed softly behind him. She sank to the floor, trembling. The truth pressed in on her like a weight: she wasn't ordinary. She was a werewolf. An heir to a bloodline worth killing for. And the only man who could help her might also be the one prophesied to destroy her.

Meanwhile, in the Crimson Fang stronghold miles away, Alpha Magnus Bloodfang stood over the torn bodies of his fallen wolves. His eyes blazed with rage. The scent of Evernight blood still lingered in the clearing where they'd died.

"Bring me Seraphine Darkvale," he snarled to his Beta.

Moments later, Seraphine entered the torchlit hall, her emerald eyes glinting with cunning. "You called, Alpha?"

Magnus's lips curled into a snarl. "The Evernight girl survived. Blackmoor has her. We move at dawn."

Seraphine tilted her head, an unreadable smile playing at her lips. "Then let the Blackmoor Pack bleed. And let Draven Blackmoor break the very oath he swore never to break."

As dawn crept across the valley, Lyra dreamed of a woman with pale hair and kind eyes - Astrid Evernight, her mother, whispering: You are stronger than the night, my little moonflower. And the blood moon will reveal your true power...

She woke gasping, the echo of the prophecy ringing in her mind.