---
—Lyra's POV—
The pain had become something else entirely.
It wasn't just agony. Not just pressure.
It was war.
My body was at war with itself, and I was losing.
The den walls swayed in and out of focus, shifting like trees in a storm. Every breath came ragged, shallow. Every muscle fiber clenched tighter than the last. And the contractions — they were no longer waves.
They were strikes.
Each one landed with a searing ferocity, like lightning cracking down my spine, white-hot and merciless. My throat burned with the scream I refused to let out.
But it came anyway.
Varyn didn't flinch. Not even when my nails tore into the furs or when I kicked the water bowl across the den.
He moved with the kind of stillness that frightened me more than any panic could have. His fingers pressed firmly beneath my tongue, placing bitter herbs there. They numbed the edge of the pain—barely—but it was his chanting that kept me from unraveling completely.
He spoke in a tongue older than Bloodfang's borders, each syllable humming with power that pulled at the very bones of the den. His hands hovered over my abdomen, glowing faintly, golden-green, like sunlight filtering through moss. The light didn't soothe—but it held the bleeding back...
"It's coming," I rasped. My voice was unrecognizable—raw and torn.
My fingers gripped the pelt beneath me, anchoring myself in the chaos.
Varyn nodded once, his eyes never leaving mine. "Then let him. He is born beneath the Hollow. Born under fire. Born for something greater than even you can see."
Tears pricked my eyes, not from the pain—but the certainty in his voice.
Born for something greater.
My Child.
---
The next contraction hit like a tidal wave.
I arched off the ground, the pain punching the air from my lungs. Varyn's hands were at my sides again, grounding me, steadying me. The world blurred around me—pelts, wood, flickering firelight.
Nothing felt real anymore.
Except his voice.
"Push, Lyra."
I screamed.
And something deep in the forest screamed with me.
It wasn't just me giving birth that night.
It was the forest waking.
The wind outside rose in a sudden, violent gust, slamming against the den's wooden frame. Trees groaned under the weight of something unseen. The Hollow pulsed, sending a shiver across the land—an echo through the air that didn't belong to any creature of flesh.
And then—
A cry.
Not mine.
Small.
Furious.
Alive.
It pierced the air like an arrow loosed into silence.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
My arms trembled violently as Varyn wrapped the tiny, blood-slicked bundle in soft fur and placed him into my embrace.
The weight of him—so small, so impossibly light—was heavier than mountains.
My son.
My Elior.
His cries faded as I kissed his damp forehead, whispering his name like a prayer, like a vow.
"Elior."
He quieted.
His eyes opened.
Not the cloudy, searching gaze of a newborn.
No.
They were clear.
Focused.
Looking straight at me with an intensity that did not belong to an infant.
A second passed.
And then—his gaze shifted.
To Varyn.
The old man froze.
Not in fear.
But in something close to awe.
"Those eyes," he whispered. "He sees more than he should."
I looked at my son again.
His gaze was ancient.
Understanding.
Too knowing.
"What do you mean?" I asked, clutching Elior tighter.
But Varyn didn't answer.
He only stepped back.
And unsheathed a small, curved blade.
---
—Varyn's POV—
There was no longer room for hesitation.
The forest had accepted him. But it definitely had not claimed him.
And that part... it was mine to finish.
I stepped into the cold firelight, the blade in my hands catching its glow. The metal was old — older than even the Hollow's current form. It had been used in rituals long before Bloodfang had ever risen from the soil. Forged not to kill—but to seal.
I drew the edge across my own palm first, letting blood drip freely. It hit the blade and hissed — an unnatural sound, like mist on a forge.
Then I moved toward the child.
Lyra's grip tightened, but she didn't stop me.
Perhaps she knew.
Perhaps she saw what I saw.
I touched the blade—still warm with my blood—to the center of the child's forehead.
He did not cry.
Did not flinch.
His eyes didn't even blink.
He watched me.
With the stillness of the moon. With the weight of a creature who had seen too much.
Like he knew what I was doing.
Like he approved.
I murmured the old name.
Not to the boy.
But to the Hollow.
The trees groaned.
The wind answered.
The shadows whispered.
The sigil flared on his skin—briefly—and then faded, as if absorbed into his blood.
He was marked.
Claimed.
Bound.
To flame.
To shadow.
To vengeance.
---
—Lyra's POV—
"You cut him!" I cried out, pulling Elior close. My heart raced, my body still shaking from the birth.
The mark glowed faintly on his brow for a second longer—then vanished.
"It's done," Varyn said quietly. "And because of it, nothing will touch him while the sigil glows. Not man. Not monster."
I looked down at my son.
He stared up at me still.
Silent. Strong.
The den had grown strangely quiet.
Outside, the wind calmed.
The owls resumed their calls.
But not the wolves.
Not one howl.
They knew.
Something had been born that night.
And the forest had accepted him.
---
Darkness.
Then light.
Then sound. Too loud. Too many.
Color. Red, gold, green. All pulsing.
A woman's voice. The scent of blood and pine. Warmth.
And beneath it—
Fire.
It didn't burn.
It called.
The infant's breath slowed.
His eyes fluttered closed.
But the sigil pulsed once on his forehead.
And in the far corner of the den—
Shadows twisted.
Deepened.
Watched.
And then were gone.
---