—Lyra's POV—
---
The first contraction hit me at dawn.
It wasn't sharp. Not at first. Just a slow ache, blooming low and deep in my belly — a reminder. Ancient. Primal. The whisper of a thousand she-wolves before me, their strength humming in my bones. My body beginning to unfasten itself, unwinding like a snare that had held too long.
I crouched in the corner of the den, arms wrapped tight around my belly, rocking gently with each breath.
"Not yet," I murmured into the cold earth. "Not here. Not alone."
But the forest had other plans.
A pine bough trembled outside, brushing snow from its needles like a shrug. The fire had burned low. Ash curled in the wind, swirling in tight little eddies across the den's stone floor. The warmth I'd managed to gather in the past days now seemed fragile. As if the storm outside could unravel it with a breath.
And inside me, something stirred.
Someone.
---
By midday, the snow returned. Heavier than before. The sky sagged low with it, like the heavens themselves were burdened.
I moved through it like smoke — swift, silent, changing shape. My limbs no longer stiffened from the cold. My breath came steady. I no longer limped. The pain in my side had faded weeks ago, swallowed by the rhythm of survival. My spear, once an awkward crutch, now sat comfortably against my shoulder. An extension of me.
I gathered roots, dry kindling, moss to cushion the den. My fingers, cracked and reddened, worked quickly. No wasted motion. No hesitation. There was no luxury for softness in this life — but I'd grown sharp.
Stronger.
Adapted.
I circled back toward my traps, three new ones I had laid earlier — farther from the den, deeper into the twilight boundary where forest and unknown met. I didn't expect them to stay untouched. Not tonight.
The air felt different. Electric. Pregnant with tension.
Something had changed.
---
It happened just before twilight.
A snarl — low and guttural — cracked through the stillness beyond the pines. Not close, but not far enough.
Then silence.
Then a scream.
Not a wolf's.
Human. Male.
I ran.
Snow clawed at my boots, sucked at my calves, but I kept moving, body angled low like a shadow sliding over the earth. My breath stayed even, controlled. My mind sharpened, every sense screaming outward.
The trap had sprung.
One of them.
And beside it — blood.
Painted in wild slashes across the snow, fanned in arcs like a violent artist's stroke. Not the kind of wound you walk away from. Not the kind that healed.
I slowed.
A body lay twisted at the center of the clearing. His leg — shredded. Face torn. His mouth was open like he'd died mid-plea. A scout's cloak fluttered from a branch, snagged and forgotten in the chaos. It flapped in the rising wind like a warning flag.
But what made me stop—what stole my breath—wasn't the body.
It was the tree.
A single pine, thicker than the rest, bark rough with age. And carved into its base—deep, deliberate, unmistakable—was the mark.
A single eye. Slit-pupiled. Watching.
The Eye of Varyn.
I stared.
The watcher wasn't hiding anymore.
He was protecting.
And he wanted me to know.
---
I made it back to the den just as the wind howled and snow began to fall sideways.
I reinforced the entrance — stones packed tight, stakes sharpened and set in a ring. The den wasn't just shelter anymore.
It was a fortress.
Another contraction tore through me. This time it didn't whisper — it screamed. My knees hit the ground hard. My vision swam.
"Breathe," I rasped.
I pressed my hands to the frozen earth, steadying myself.
No fear.
Only fire.
---
That night, I dreamed.
It was snowing, but the flakes never touched the ground. They hovered, suspended like stars caught in a moment before falling.
A figure stood beyond the den. A silhouette. Not Lucian. Not a rogue.
He was something else.
Eyes like molten silver. Antlers twisted from bone and shadow rose from his head like a crown of death and divinity.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He raised a hand, and where it passed, the trees bowed. Pines — tall, proud, ancient — bent as if in reverence. The wind hushed. Even the flames at the mouth of the den curled inward, kneeling.
My child stirred in my womb, and the pain... faded.
The figure looked at me.
Not with kindness.
But with purpose.
---
—Lucian's POV—
---
I woke with a gasp.
Clawing at the sheets. My chest heaved, lungs starving. The chamber around me was warm — too warm. Stifling.
The mark I had carved above my heart when I severed the bond — that final act of mercy, of surrender — burned.
As if it had never broken at all.
I stumbled to my feet, staggered toward the window. The moon hung high, full and red as a fresh wound.
A bad omen.
A promise.
---
The next morning, Arienne stood in the corridor, barring my path. Her crimson braid was wrapped tight like a noose. Her armor gleamed. But her voice was cold steel.
"Something is wrong with you."
I didn't stop walking.
"Step aside."
"You're dreaming of her again, aren't you?"
My steps faltered. Just for a breath. But she caught it.
"She's dead, Lucian."
I turned.
Slowly.
"Then why does my wolf wake... howling her name?"
She didn't answer.
But the fear in her silence said enough.
---
That night, I found the scroll again. I wasn't supposed to have it. The council had sealed all Bloodfang scout reports after the second moon. But I'd kept one.
The last.
Scrawled in uneven ink, the parchment stained with frost and panic.
> "Fire burns in the woods. Not rogue. Not wild. Controlled. Protected. Something watches from the pines.
It is not Bloodfang.
It is not Varinth.
It is older."
Older.
I traced the ink with my fingers. The parchment crinkled beneath my grip.
A whisper escaped me.
"Lyra… hold on."
Because I was coming.
Even if it meant defying the Council. Even if it meant facing the shadows I had buried in the deepest part of my soul.
---
—Lyra's POV—
---
Far from the Keep, in the deep forest, pain ripped through me like lightning.
My hands clawed the den wall, nails breaking on stone. The fire flickered. My breath came in ragged gasps.
And outside — something answered.
Not a wolf's howl.
Something older. Wilder.
A sound not made by throat or fang, but by the forest itself. The pines trembled. Snow slithered from the branches in long, slow sighs. The wind sang with teeth.
The mark on the tree glowed faintly in my mind's eye.
The Eye watches.
But I wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Because the howl didn't promise death.
It promised witness.