The moment the Hollow's serum touched her tongue, Lyra's world shattered.
Not violently.
Not like war or betrayal or blood.
No—this was something far worse. It was quiet. A silence so absolute it scraped through the bone.
Her limbs went weightless. Her heart slowed. Her vision cracked into fragments.
And then, darkness swallowed her whole.
She was drifting.
Through time.
Through memory.
Through blood.
A thousand echoes whispered in her ears, voices she didn't recognize—wolves long dead, fates long cursed. She reached for something—anything—stable. But the Hollow's truth took her anyway.
The first vision hit like a slap.
Cain.
Younger. A few years before Silverfang fell.
Standing inside a moonlit chamber beneath Bloodveil's keep. The altar before him was slick with dried blood, the stone beneath his feet carved in runes Lyra now recognized from the archives—Hollow runes. Forbidden ones.
His father, Alaric, stood behind him. Tall. Cold. Merciless.
"This is how you protect the pack," the old Alpha whispered, voice low with reverence. "Through sacrifice. Through blood."
Cain trembled slightly. Just slightly.
"This isn't what the Moon Goddess wants," he said. "This bond… it doesn't feel right."
"She no longer answers us. We do what the Hollow demands."
Alaric handed Cain a ceremonial blade. Ancient. Tainted.
Cain gripped it with both hands.
"Choose her," Alaric said. "Or choose ruin."
"Who?"
"She's not born yet. But the Hollow has shown her to me. Violet eyes. A name like frost. She is death. She is anchor. She is the one."
Cain stared at the altar.
His voice cracked when he whispered: "Lyra."
The Hollow howled in response.
Lyra screamed, but no sound came out.
The vision pulled her deeper.
Now the forest burned around her. The scent of pine and blood clashed in the air. The night of her death.
The fall of Silverfang.
She saw herself—barely thirteen—curled behind the corpse of her older brother. Her small body trembling, a sob locked in her throat. The flames lit the snow in orange and crimson. Wolves screamed around her. Died around her.
And then—
A presence.
Ancient.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Will you live, little wolf?" the Hollow asked. "Then give me your scream."
She opened her mouth and screamed—not with fear. With fury.
The air around her cracked.
A mark—blazing violet and silver—seared across her collarbone, uninvited. Unholy.
And somewhere far away, Cain flinched.
The bond had awakened.
Not from touch.
Not from prophecy.
But from her rage.
She had summoned it.
She had sealed herself to Cain through the Hollow.
Lyra's eyes snapped open.
She sat upright, gasping, drenched in sweat.
Cain lay beside her, his breathing ragged, his golden eyes glassy with memory. He blinked rapidly, then pushed himself up with shaking hands.
"You saw it," she croaked.
He nodded once.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Then Lyra said, barely louder than a breath, "It wasn't fate."
"No," Cain murmured.
"I did this. I called the Hollow. I bound us."
"You were a child. You didn't know—"
"I sealed myself to you," she said, louder now. "I used ancient magic to tie my soul to yours. Not because of love. Not because we were meant."
She looked down at the mark still pulsing on her collarbone.
"But because I refused to die."
Cain reached for her, but she pulled back.
"I'm not your mate, Cain. I'm your curse."
"No," he said fiercely. "You are my salvation. The Hollow might've started the bond—but it didn't finish it. I chose you. Every moment after."
"No," she whispered. "You didn't. You chose survival. You let a girl die so your curse would be chained to something living."
He closed his eyes, jaw tight.
"I didn't know it would be you."
"That doesn't make it better."
She left the room before he could say another word.
Her steps were uneven. Her legs trembled, but she kept walking—through the keep, down the spiral stairs, back into the archive.
She had to know more.
She lit the torches with shaking hands, unrolled the scrolls she'd seen before. Her fingers danced over ancient ink, dusty with time.
There it was, in writing etched in ash and bone:
"To awaken the Hollow's mercy, one must offer the soul of a bound one. If no soul is taken… the Hollow chooses."
Lyra fell to her knees.
The bond wasn't an accident.
It was a trade.
The Hollow took her death. In return, it gave her Cain.
Or gave Cain her.
The price was always her.
She turned the page.
There, again, was the mark. Sketched in black and red. Not as a mate symbol. Not a promise.
But a seal.
A cage.
For something ancient. Something monstrous. Something waiting to break free through her skin.
She wasn't just bound to Cain.
She was the lock to the Hollow's door.
When Cain found her later that night, she was sitting on the cold floor, surrounded by texts that smelled like blood.
"You read it," he said.
She didn't answer.
He came closer. "You still think you're my curse."
She looked up at him.
"No. I think I'm everyone's."
They returned to her chamber together.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
He lit the hearth. She sat near the window, legs drawn to her chest.
Cain pulled something from his coat.
A small vial.
Silver.
"What is it?" she asked.
"An elixir," he said. "From the Hollow's edge. It reveals the origin of power when shared by both wolves. If we drink it together…"
"We'll see the truth," she whispered.
"Yes."
She stared at it.
"You trust me to see your memories?"
"I'm terrified," he admitted.
She reached for the vial. Took it in her hand.
"Then let's both be afraid."
They drank.
The serum burned like moonfire.
Lyra's vision collapsed again—but this time, she didn't fight it.
More visions.
More truth.
This time, Cain's truth.
She saw his childhood. How Alaric carved runes into his skin before he could shift. How his mother was sacrificed to the Hollow to protect his ascension. How Cain screamed into his pillow each night, dreaming of blood and waking to see it on his hands.
She saw his first kill.
His first act of mercy.
His refusal to take a mate the council had chosen for him.
His choice to wait for someone real.
And then… her.
The moment he felt her die.
The pain that burned down his spine. The guilt that consumed him in silence. The confusion when the Hollow whispered her name after death.
And his rage when he realized he couldn't undo the bond—even if he tried.
Lyra fell back into her body with a gasp.
Cain coughed beside her, clutching his ribs.
They were both shaking.
"I know you now," she whispered.
"And I know you."
They looked at each other—not as enemies. Not even as mates.
But as two broken things that fate had welded together through fire.
Later, alone, Lyra walked the corridors of the keep.
The mark no longer pulsed with fury.
But with warning.
Break me. Or I'll consume you both.
She stopped near the eastern hall and felt it—the echo of another magic. A presence too sharp, too watching.
Kael.
He emerged from the shadows, silver eyes gleaming.
"Well," he said, voice soft and knowing. "I felt the bond twist. You saw it, didn't you?"
"I did."
"And now?"
Lyra said nothing.
"You understand why I came," Kael said. "Why I offered you a choice. Cain isn't your future. He's your tether to a curse."
"I'm the one who called the Hollow," she said. "Not him."
"Then you're the one with the power to end it."
Kael took a step closer.
"I can help you unbind it. Free yourself. Take the mark and make it yours."
Her hands trembled at her sides.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why help me?"
Kael's gaze darkened.
"Because I want to watch him burn."
He held out his hand.
And Lyra—marked by rage, bound by accident, forged by blood—stared at it.
To take it meant freedom.
But also war.
Because if she broke the bond… Cain might not survive.
And worse?
Neither might she.