The dark did not fall; it poured.
One heartbeat the forest still glowed in the faint amber of sunset, and the next, the light drained away as if the sky itself had turned its face aside. Lyra could still feel the pulse of the moonlight deep inside her chest, though the heavens were blank.
Kian's hand tightened around hers. "Stay close," he murmured, his voice low enough to sound like the wind speaking.
She nodded, but her gaze was drawn upward to the emptiness where the moon should have been. The stars had vanished too—every one of them—leaving only a low red shimmer seeping from the trunks of the trees.
The forest was changing. The veins of the trees glowed from within, their bark alive with an eerie luminescence that ran like blood through capillaries. The stream that had been silver at dawn now bled crimson. Its reflection threw shifting waves of red across their faces.
Kian crouched, fingers brushing the damp earth. "Warm," he said, frowning. "It shouldn't be."
Lyra felt the same heat under her boots, a faint vibration that matched the beat of her own heart. The witch's words came back to her—When love and fate clash, the moon decides which heart endures. Perhaps the decision had already begun.
A sound rose through the trees, soft at first—a low humming, like a voice caught between sleep and breath. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, wrapping around the trunks, rippling through the ground.
Lyra turned slowly. The fog ahead was thickening, curling into shapes. The humming grew clearer, almost melodic, carrying fragments of words she didn't know.
Kian moved to stand before her. "Don't look at them too long," he said quietly. "They're not alive."
But she couldn't look away. The mist had formed outlines—wolves, translucent and shifting, their bodies made of smoke and memory. They moved in a slow circle around the clearing, eyes glowing silver. One by one, they lifted their heads and began to howl, the sound rising like grief caught in the throat of the world.
Lyra pressed her hands over her ears, but the sound wasn't in the air anymore—it was inside her, echoing in her bones. The bond flared. Images flashed behind her eyes: a silver crown falling, a woman's scream swallowed by snow, a wolf tearing through fire. Her knees hit the ground.
Kian knelt beside her, one arm steadying her shoulder. "Lyra! Look at me—only me."
She forced her gaze up. The forest vanished, replaced by the molten gold of his eyes. The hum receded, but one figure still lingered among the mist—a woman with long dark hair and eyes like molten silver. Lyra knew that face, though she had never seen it before.
The ghost's lips moved, forming words that brushed against the edge of hearing: "The moon remembers what the heart forgets."
Then the vision split apart, scattering like ash.
The silence that followed was worse than the sound. The forest held still, waiting.
Kian exhaled slowly. "They're echoes," he said. "Shadows of the old packs. The curse has woken them."
Lyra swallowed, her throat dry. "Why now?"
"Because we're still standing," he said. "Because we're bonded."
He helped her to her feet. Their palms touched, and the marks beneath their skin glowed faintly in answer, as if acknowledging the truth neither wanted to admit: the curse wasn't finished—it was only beginning to breathe again.
The world smelled of rain that hadn't yet fallen.
Each breath Lyra drew carried the metallic taste of the forest's unease — a mingling of iron and something older, like forgotten fire. The silence pressed against her skin, thick and trembling.
Kian's grip was steady, though his jaw was set tight. The crimson light still pulsed faintly in the roots beneath their feet. He looked like he was listening, not to the forest, but to something within himself.
Lyra's voice came quiet. "You've seen them before, haven't you?"
Kian's gaze shifted to the trees. "Once. Long ago. When I thought I'd broken the curse."
She waited. He didn't continue, so she stepped closer, the faint brush of her cloak against his arm grounding them both. "Tell me."
He inhaled slowly. "The night I became Alpha. The Blood Moon rose, and the dead howled their warning. I ignored it. I thought strength alone could silence what had been written."
His voice softened then, as if each word cost him a memory. "The curse isn't about power. It's about choice — what we give up to keep what we love."
Lyra's pulse quickened. "And what did you give up?"
He met her eyes. For a moment, the world shrank to that look — the low amber in his irises, the shadow of loss carved into the line of his mouth. "Someone I couldn't save."
The words hung there. They did not need names; the ache behind them was enough.
A gust of wind swept through the clearing, stirring the mist into coils again. Lyra shivered. "The witch said the moon decides which heart endures," she murmured. "What if it means one of us must fall for the other to live?"
Kian's hand found her wrist, warm and trembling. "Then we fight fate," he said. "Together."
The bond between them pulsed. It wasn't gentle — it burned, alive, a thread of light searing through her veins. The forest responded. The trees shifted their glow from red to white, flickering like the beat of a wounded heart.
Suddenly, the air split — a sound sharp as a blade cutting through glass. Lyra stumbled back as a shape formed before them, rising from the ground like smoke condensed into form.
It was her — the same spectral woman from before. But now, her outline was clearer, her eyes darker. She held out her hand, and in her palm was a small, silver crescent glowing faintly — a fragment of moonlight, trembling between worlds.
"Take it," the spirit whispered. Her voice was neither kind nor cruel, but heavy with knowledge. "Only one heart can bear its light."
Lyra hesitated, staring at the crescent. "What happens if we refuse?"
The spirit's expression flickered — sorrow, then something like fear. "The forest will remember. And memory is hunger."
Before either could speak, the specter dissolved, scattering into white motes that drifted away like fireflies into the fog.
Kian bent down and lifted the fragment. It was cold — too cold — and yet it pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn't his.
Lyra reached out, fingers trembling. "Don't—"
The moment her hand brushed his, the crescent flared to life. Light burst outward, throwing both of them backward into the dirt. The world tilted.
Lyra's eyes flew open to a vision: two wolves standing under a broken moon — one black as shadow, one silver as frost. The black one bowed its head. The silver one howled, and the sky shattered into rain.
Then everything went dark.
The rain began without warning.
It came in soft sheets at first, whispering through the trees, then heavier — a sound that filled the world with silver noise.
Kian stirred, breath shallow, the taste of ash and lightning still thick in his mouth. He blinked against the blur of red and white that bled together across the clearing. His body felt leaden, as though the earth itself clung to him, unwilling to let him rise.
Then memory struck.
Lyra.
He turned sharply, pain sparking through his muscles. She lay only a few feet away, her hair fanned across the wet moss like spilled ink, her face pale in the lightless air.
"Lyra!" The name tore out of him before he could stop it.
He crawled to her side, his hands trembling as he brushed rain from her cheek. Her skin was cool, almost cold. No visible wound, no mark — just stillness.
Her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her skin, her lips parted as though caught mid-breath. The crescent fragment — the shard of the Blood Moon — lay near her palm, dull and lifeless now.
He pressed his forehead against hers. "Don't do this," he whispered. "Don't you dare."
For a moment, there was only the sound of the rain and his heartbeat — too loud, too uneven. Then something shifted beneath his hand. Her pulse. Faint, fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird.
"Lyra," he breathed.
Her body arched slightly, a whisper leaving her lips — not a word, but a sound of pain, confusion, and… something else.
Kian's vision blurred. Relief cut through the fear, but it was short-lived.
Because when her eyes opened, they were no longer the soft, hazel warmth he remembered.
They were silver.
Not the silver of moonlight — colder, sharper, alive with something ancient.
Lyra sat up too quickly, as though pulled by invisible strings. Her gaze darted to the trees, then to Kian. For a long, breathless second, she stared at him — and he at her — the rain falling between them like a veil.
He reached for her hand. "It's me," he said gently.
She blinked, her brow furrowing. "You're…" Her voice was distant, layered, as though two tones spoke through her at once. "You shouldn't have taken the light."
Kian froze. "What do you mean?"
Her expression flickered — confusion, fear, and something far more dangerous. "It wasn't meant for you. It was meant to choose."
The ground trembled under their feet. The forest's glow returned, only this time it wasn't red — it was pale silver, the color of her new eyes.
"Lyra," he whispered, stepping closer.
But she stumbled backward, clutching her chest. The mark of their bond — the faint crescent beneath her skin — was blazing now, its light seeping through her veins like fire.
"Kian…" Her voice broke. "I can hear them — the dead, the wolves, the moon itself." Her eyes lifted toward the black sky. "They're calling my name."
He reached her just as she swayed. His arms caught her, but the light between them burned hotter, almost violent. He winced, feeling it claw at his skin.
And then, in a voice that wasn't entirely hers, she whispered, "It's not over. It has only just begun."
The world went white.
When the light faded, Kian was alone.
The forest was still. The rain had stopped.
And the only sign Lyra had ever been there was the silver crescent glowing faintly in the mud where she had stood.
He fell to his knees, breath shaking, as the whisper returned — soft, endless, and familiar.
"The moon remembers what the heart forgets."
The light fades, leaving only a distant echo — a whisper through the trees. The moon remembers what the heart forgets.
And as the last echo dies, Kian opens his eyes — but Lyra does not.