---
—Lyra's POV—
The pain kept coming.
It no longer crashed in—it rolled.
Waves. Cruel and ancient. Tearing through me with the patience of the moon pulling at the tides.
Sharp. Deep. Then—gone.
Only to return stronger than before.
I bit down on the edge of a leather strap I'd torn from my cloak. My palms braced against the frozen stone of the den wall, fingers raw and trembling. My knees shook, muscles twitching beneath blood-warmed furs, but I refused to fall.
I couldn't fall.
Not yet.
The baby wasn't ready.
And neither was I.
Because something was coming.
---
The forest had gone still.
Too still.
The wind had been whispering earlier. Cold and cruel, yes—but alive.
Now? It was like the trees were listening.
Even the birds—gods, not one had sung since morning. The pines, usually restless with life, stood frozen, like ancient sentinels carved in green stone.
I felt it in my bones. In my gut. In the thin line of sweat cooling on my brow.
Something was wrong.
Something was watching.
I grabbed the spear. My hands barely gripped the shaft right. I staggered toward the mouth of the den, legs unsteady but moving.
Outside, the snow glowed blue beneath the late afternoon light. A faint mist swirled near the forest floor, creeping between the roots like silver snakes.
Nothing moved.
I scanned the trees—
Then caught it.
A flicker.
Movement. Just beyond the pines.
I raised the spear.
A shadow stepped forward.
Tall. Cloaked. A figure half-wrapped in the stillness, half-born of it. The cloak shimmered in the fading light—black, but speckled like night snow. Antlers curved from the hood, bone-white and smooth like polished moonstone.
And the eyes—
Molten silver.
Just like the dream.
I tightened my grip. A low snarl climbed up my throat, burning through my fear.
"Back," I warned, voice barely steady.
The figure didn't speak.
Didn't flinch.
He only lifted a hand. Hood sliding back.
And revealed a face I couldn't forget.
---
He looked young—but not young.
Ageless. Like winter itself.
Hair black as raven feathers. Skin pale as ash cooled by storms. High cheekbones, a scar cutting from brow to temple, and eyes that saw too much.
His presence wasn't heavy—but it made the air feel thicker, charged like the moment before lightning strikes.
And still—my wolf didn't growl.
She knelt.
Inside me, the beast stilled. Not from fear.
But from recognition.
He slowly raised his hand higher. Palm open. No threat. No weapon. Just silence.
Then, finally, a voice like wind brushing through graves and memory:
"I've watched you bleed. I've watched you rise. Now I will not let you fall."
---
Another contraction slammed into me.
My knees gave way.
The cold lunged up my spine—but I didn't hit the ground.
He caught me.
Arms strong, steady. He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Like I wasn't a runaway rogue with a monster growing inside me. Like I wasn't cursed.
He held me like I was something sacred.
Like a queen.
---
Inside the den, he laid me down with care—eclipsing all that frozen stone with a sudden warmth I hadn't felt in weeks.
He moved quickly but gently, pulling herbs from his satchel and crushing them into a circle around us.
Sage. Myrrh. Moonthorn.
Ancient.
Banned in half the clans for their use in blood rites.
He began to chant—not in any tongue I knew, but the sound rippled through my bones like a lullaby made of fire.
The pain didn't leave. But it changed.
It became endurable.
Heavy—but no longer sharp. Like the forest had accepted it.
Or shared it.
---
"Who are you?" I croaked.
My throat felt dry. My eyes stung. I couldn't tell if it was the herbs or the tears I refused to shed.
The man met my gaze.
His voice was softer now. Still low, still ancient—but less distant.
"A shadow. A flame. A guardian."
He looked at me—not like a healer. Not like a man.
Like something older.
Something that remembered.
"My name is Varyn."
---
—Lucian's POV—
The wind howled high above the keep walls, but I didn't feel it.
Didn't care.
I packed only what I needed: a blade. My warmest furs. Two satchels of herbs I hadn't touched in years.
And her necklace.
The one she left behind.
The one I'd carried every godsdamned day since.
---
The guards saw me.
They didn't stop me.
Not because I was Alpha.
But because I was broken.
Eyes hollow. Steps relentless. A storm with no thunder left.
No one asked where I was going.
Everyone knew.
---
I didn't have a map.
Didn't need one.
The bond still burned—faint, yes, but alive.
Somewhere beyond the Frostfang line, beyond what should have been survivable… she breathed.
She breathed.
And that was all I needed.
If she lived…
If she still carried the fire that once scorched me in silence and glances and a stubborn chin…
Then I would find her.
I would kneel at her feet.
Even if she spat on me.
Even if she cursed me until the moon bled dry.
Because I had abandoned her.
Because I had chosen the crown.
Because I thought duty meant sacrifice.
But what kind of king sacrifices his heart?
---
I crossed into the Hollow Forest by nightfall.
The fog was thick.
The moon—a cruel sliver.
Every step whispered her name.
Lyra.
Lyra.
Lyra.
---
I should've known better.
You don't burn a wildfire and expect it not to rise from the ashes.
---
—Lyra's POV—
Varyn didn't leave.
Even when I slept—he stayed close, silent, unmoving.
Like a sentinel. Like death that refused to come for me just yet.
Sometimes, I caught him tracing strange sigils into the snow. They glowed faintly for a heartbeat—then vanished.
The forest stayed quiet.
But I no longer feared it.
Because something darker than the pines watched over me now.
And, somehow, I trusted him.
Not because he smiled. He didn't.
Not because he touched me gently. Though he did.
But because he saw me.
The broken, bleeding, stubborn wreck I'd become.
And didn't flinch.
---
"I know what you carry," he said once, when I thought he'd gone still again.
I turned toward him, pulse quickening. "What do you mean?"
He looked down at my belly.
Then into my soul.
"A legacy meant to be buried. A child the stars already fear."
His voice was calm. Not cruel.
"And you will need to choose, Lyra. Soon."
"Choose what?"
But he didn't answer.
---
I stared at the den roof for a long time after that.
Snow began to fall outside.
Soft. Endless.
I closed my eyes.
And dreamed of silver eyes and black crowns.
Of a child born beneath screaming pines.
And of Lucian's voice, whispering my name like it still meant something.
---
—Lucian's POV—
The Frostfang ridge was near.
The tracks were fresh—part wolf, part human.
She was close.
So close I could almost smell her—like winter and pine smoke and the faintest trace of ash.
And then—
A howl.
Low. Wounded. But alive.
My heart cracked open.
Lyra.
---
I ran.
Faster than I ever had.
Through thorns. Through snow.
Until I reached the clearing.
And saw the herbs.
The circle.
The den.
And the antlered figure standing guard at its mouth, holding a staff made of bone and shadow.
His eyes met mine.
Molten silver.
And he said only one word:
"Too late."