They said no wolf could reach the Throne of the Nameless.
Not because it was far, or because the path was treacherous.
Because it wasn't built.
It was bled.
Carved deep into the marrow of the farthest mountain, a place older than memory or legend.
A place where the first oaths were broken, and the first names were swallowed whole—forgotten by gods, ignored by time.
It was a throne without a crown.
A seat of power cursed beyond reckoning.
And now, it called to Lyra.
The Hollow Ring was still bleeding.
Ash dusted every surface—torches hung blackened and useless, blades were dulled by soot, and the skin of every wolf carried the grime of battle and loss.
The pack moved slowly to rebuild.
Memory was bound into stone and song.
But Lyra remained distant, lost in a storm no one else could see.
A silent pull thrummed beneath her bones—a vibration she couldn't shake.
A humming, a pressure, as heavy and inevitable as the air before a storm.
And the sixth ring—the one that branded her soul—never stopped burning.
Cain found her standing on the ridge at dawn.
The sky stretched wide above her, pale and fragile.
"You're leaving," he said, voice cautious but steady.
She didn't turn.
"I have to," Lyra said. "There's something deeper than Varyn. Something waiting for me to carry this name this far. Now it wants to test me."
Kael came up beside Cain, frowning. "Then let us come with you."
Lyra shook her head.
"No," she said, voice firm. "This isn't a battle of blades or fire. This is what the name remembers. And it wants me alone."
From the edge of the flame, the Alpha Unbound stepped forward, his presence as heavy as the ash-filled air.
"She speaks true," he said.
Cain swallowed and pressed on.
"Then at least tell us what's there."
The Unbound stared toward the jagged peaks.
"A throne without a crown."
"A name without a tongue."
"And a history too cursed to be written."
That night, Lyra began the climb.
No torch to light her path.
No map to guide her steps.
No blade for protection.
Only the faint glow of the sixth ring pulsing at her throat, and the fragments of memory growing sharper as she rose higher.
Storms raged, furious and wild, but they could not touch her.
The air grew thin, but her lungs did not falter.
Because she was not merely walking into myth.
She was the myth.
The summit yawned before her like the mouth of eternity.
There, hewn from black obsidian bone and bound by chains forged not from metal—but from regret—stood the throne.
Its surface pulsed with a slow, monstrous heartbeat.
A living relic of pain and power.
The wind stilled the moment she stepped forward.
A voice rose from the depths of the mountain—not loud, not deep, but final and unyielding.
"You carry the name."
"But do you carry truth?"
Lyra swallowed hard, lips dry.
"I carry memory."
"Memory is not truth."
Her voice didn't waver.
"Then show me."
The sky split open.
Not with light.
But with remembrance.
Time fractured, folding back on itself like a broken mirror.
Lyra fell into the throne.
Not as a body dropping into cold stone.
But as a soul swallowed by the vast mouth of time.
Suddenly, she was no longer just Lyra.
She was all of them.
The girl who had first defied her Alpha.
The child who had buried her mother beneath a field of silence.
The wolf who had taken a bond meant to destroy her—and turned it into prophecy.
And beneath all of them—
The nameless thing waiting in her blood.
The voice spoke again, colder now.
"You carry me."
"But can you bear what I once did?"
Lyra saw the ancient wolves.
The ones who had bound the name in flesh, desperate and terrified.
The ones who begged the gods to forget the horrors they had unleashed.
The original betrayal.
The first mate sacrificed.
The power that had come not from love, but obliteration.
She screamed.
And the throne screamed back.
Back in Icefall, Cain and Kael felt it like a shudder through the earth.
The wind turned black for a heartbeat.
The fire wept silver tears.
Kael whispered, "She's at the throne."
Cain's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked.
"We hold the line."
"Until she returns. Or until the world ends."
On the mountain, Lyra rose from the throne of bone.
Her body shook.
Blood dripped from her lips and fingertips.
But she was whole.
Because she had seen the truth.
And she had chosen not to run.
Behind the throne, a door of flame flared open, its heat licking the cold stone like a breath of life.
And from the fire came a voice—soft, yet heavy with power.
"You passed the test."
"Now bear the crown."
Lyra's heart thundered as the fire cast shadows that danced like ancient ghosts across her face.
The weight of the name settled on her soul like a mantle.
Not a burden.
Not a curse.
A calling.
The mountain around her pulsed with ancient energy.
The throne, the chains, the name—it was all alive.
And now, so was she.
The first step had been taken.
But the journey was far from over.
Because the crown was not just a symbol of power.
It was a challenge.
A demand.
And a promise.
Far below, the wolves of Icefall waited.
Their breaths frosted in the chill air.
Their hearts beating in anxious rhythm.
Waiting for the girl who carried the world.