The first light came thin and colorless, stretching over the ruined stones like a sigh.
Lyra stepped out of the temple's shadow, blinking at the faint gold that spilled between the trees. Dew clung to every surface—branches, grass, her hair—and when she brushed it away, the drops gleamed like shards of the witch's broken mirror.
Behind her, Kian moved silently. Even tired, his presence filled the space between breaths. His shirt was torn where the talisman had burned through, and the faint silver of the mark shimmered against his skin whenever the light touched it.
They did not speak. The forest felt suspended, emptied of birdsong and the constant whisper of wind. Every sound—the crunch of boots, the soft exhale of breath—carried farther than it should have. Lyra had the sense that even the world was holding still, waiting to see what they would do next.
The path wound downward until the trees opened into a hollow edged with ferns. A thin stream ran through the middle, its surface smooth as glass. Kian crouched beside it, scooping water into his hands, and for a moment Lyra simply watched him. There was something different in his movements now—careful, almost reverent, as if he feared that the forest itself might shatter.
When he looked up, their eyes met.
Neither needed words. The night behind them had changed everything.
Lyra knelt at the water's edge, rinsing the blood and soot from her hands. The cold bit at her skin, bringing her fully awake. She caught her reflection wavering on the surface—the same eyes, the same dark hair, yet something older stared back. The witch's warning clung to her like a shadow: When love and fate clash, the moon decides which heart endures.
Kian broke the silence first. "Does it ever feel like we're being watched?"
She gave a small, humorless smile. "Only always."
He stood and scanned the treeline, nostrils flaring slightly as his senses reached outward. "The forest is wrong," he murmured. "It's too still."
"Maybe it's resting," she offered. But even as she said it, Lyra knew he was right. The stillness wasn't peace; it was the hush before something else.
They found a patch of dry ground beneath an old cedar and settled there. Kian stripped a length of cloth from what was left of his sleeve and began to bind the burn on his arm. Lyra reached for him without thinking. "Here," she said softly, taking the strip. "Let me."
He hesitated—just long enough for her to feel the tension humming beneath his skin—then nodded. The scent of pine and smoke clung to him. As she wrapped the cloth, her fingers brushed his pulse. It jumped once beneath her touch. Neither of them spoke about it.
When the wound was covered, Kian exhaled, a sound that was half a sigh and half relief. "Thank you."
Lyra glanced up. "For the witch or the bandage?"
His mouth curved. "Both."
A faint warmth threaded through the moment, delicate as sunlight through mist. Yet beneath it, the silence pressed close again, carrying the faint echo of that other world—the mirror's red glow, the witch's eyes like dying embers.
Lyra looked toward the east where the light was strengthening. "She said the mirror shows debts," she murmured. "I saw someone who looked like me. Or maybe it was me—another version."
Kian turned his head slightly, studying her. "I saw fire. My wolf losing control. Maybe the same fire she meant."
She wanted to believe it was only a vision, but deep down she knew the witch had shown them pieces of a truth still unfolding.
The breeze stirred for the first time, carrying the faint scent of iron from the stream. It was enough to make both of them glance toward the shadows. Nothing moved there, yet the forest seemed to breathe with them—slow, measured, aware.
Kian's voice dropped low. "Let's rest for a while, then keep moving before nightfall. I don't trust this place to stay quiet."
Lyra nodded. But as she lay back on the grass, her gaze drifted to the silver streak that cut through the morning sky—the faint ghost of the moon still visible even under daylight. It watched them, pale and patient, like an eye that never closed.
The day passed like breath through glass—fragile, translucent, and gone before either of them could measure it.
By afternoon, the sunlight had turned amber, spilling across the hollow in warm streaks. Kian sat near the small fire they'd built, turning a fallen branch slowly in his hands. The flames painted his features in restless gold: the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar running from temple to ear, the shadows beneath his eyes that no sleep could soften.
Lyra sat a few feet away, watching the smoke curl upward in thin spirals. It twisted into shapes—faces, wings, and once, for an instant, the faint outline of a crescent moon. She blinked, and it was gone.
"I used to think the bond was punishment," she said finally, her voice breaking the hush. "A way for the goddess to remind me what I'd lost."
Kian's eyes lifted to hers. "And now?"
"I'm not sure." She picked at a blade of grass between her fingers. "Sometimes it feels like a thread pulling me apart. Other times…" She hesitated, then glanced up at him. "Other times, it feels like the only thing keeping me whole."
He didn't answer right away. The fire crackled softly. "When I lost control," he said at last, "I heard your voice. Just once. It cut through everything. That's what brought me back."
Lyra looked at him sharply. "You heard me?"
He nodded. "It wasn't just hearing. It was… knowing. You were afraid, but you didn't run. You stayed."
Her breath caught. The memory of that night still burned behind her ribs—his roar tearing through the forest, her own heartbeat a drum in her ears. "I couldn't leave you," she whispered.
For a long time neither spoke. The bond pulsed faintly, a rhythm shared between their hearts. Lyra could feel his emotions beneath the surface—raw, uncertain, edged with something like regret.
"Do you ever wish things had been different?" she asked quietly.
"Every day," he said. "But wishing doesn't change the past. Only what we do with it now."
There was something steady in his tone, something that made her look at him differently. He wasn't just the Alpha anymore; he was a man trying to hold together what fate kept tearing apart.
She looked down at her hands. The faint mark from the talisman had faded to a thin silver line across her palm. "The witch said the moon fears one of us," she murmured. "What did she mean by that?"
Kian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, firelight reflecting in his eyes. "Maybe it's not about fear. Maybe it's about power—what happens when two things meant to destroy each other decide not to."
The words lingered between them, heavy and soft all at once. Lyra felt the bond stir again, a warmth unfurling from deep inside her chest.
Outside the clearing, the forest began to hum faintly with the sound of evening. The air thickened with the scent of rain and moss. Somewhere distant, thunder rolled, low and patient.
Lyra drew in a slow breath, feeling the shift. "Something's changing," she said.
Kian's gaze flicked to her mark—the faint light beneath her collarbone now pulsing in time with the thunder. "It's reacting again."
She pressed her hand over it, startled by how hot it felt. "What if it's warning us?"
"Or calling to something," Kian said, his tone almost unreadable.
Their eyes met—unspoken fear mirrored in both—and the silence that followed wasn't peaceful anymore. It was alive, like a held breath waiting to break.
The wind turned colder as twilight crept down the slope. The color of the forest shifted from green to violet, and every sound—the flick of flame, the slow rustle of leaves—seemed to echo too long, as if the trees were repeating it to one another.
Kian stirred the dying fire, then let the branch fall. "We should move before dark," he said, but his voice held no command—only thought.
Lyra nodded and rose. The air had thickened, soft with the smell of rain and something faintly metallic. She felt the mark beneath her collarbone beat once against her skin, an unfamiliar pulse that wasn't her own.
"Do you hear that?" she asked.
Kian tilted his head. The forest had no birdsong, no insect hum—just a low vibration at the edge of hearing, like the tremor of a drum struck somewhere deep underground.
"It's the bond again," he said, though he didn't sound convinced.
They started walking, keeping close to the narrow path where the last light threaded through the branches. Each step stirred up silver dust from the leaves. The path curved toward a ridge that overlooked the valley, and from there the world opened—rolling hills washed in fog, the first stars trembling above them.
Lyra stopped. "Kian," she whispered.
He followed her gaze upward. The moon had risen early—thin, sharp, and wrong. Its light wasn't white this time but tinged with a soft amber glow that rippled across the clouds like breath.
For a heartbeat it was beautiful. Then the glow deepened, bruised into a color closer to blood. The air pressed against them, heavy, electric.
Kian's jaw tightened. "It's reacting to us," he said.
Lyra shook her head. "No… it's recognizing us."
The mark on her skin flared again; the talisman in his pocket answered with the same light. Between them, the air shimmered, and for an instant she thought she saw a figure in the haze—a woman with eyes like molten silver, watching. When Lyra blinked, the vision was gone.
The thunder returned, louder now, rolling through the valley in long, slow pulses. Kian reached for her hand without looking away from the sky. His palm was warm, steady, the only human thing in that vast, trembling silence.
"What do we do?" she asked.
"We wait," he said. "If this is what the moon wants, it will tell us soon enough."
A breeze lifted the edge of her cloak, carrying the scent of rain, pine, and faint smoke from their abandoned fire. Somewhere far below, a wolf howled once, the sound stretching thin through the mist.
Lyra felt the echo slide down her spine. It didn't sound like any wolf she'd ever heard. It sounded older—something pulled from memory, from prophecy.
The sky pulsed one final time, and the light snapped out as if the moon had shut its eye.
Darkness rushed in.