So moments later, Mira arrived in the lands of the moonfang pack, with the young baby cradled against her.
They arrived in the sacred courtyard, where the old stone pillars held their secrets known to only her, the warriors and the elder under twists of red cloth.
Torches guttered in the waking wind, their flames bowing low, as if afraid to burn too bright beneath the blood moon's dying watch, the courtyard was not very bright.
Mist coiled between the feet of waiting wolves for the warriors who came from the borderlands for hunting and searching.
Mothers pressed their young close, warriors standing stiff with spears braced in the cold.
Mira stepped forward from the pack of wolf warriors, her cloak heavy with night frost, the baby cradled, she held close to her breast.
Lyra's breath puffed gently; it felt warm against her collarbone. Around them, low murmurs rose and died, swallowed by the hush of ancient stones.
They were pack members who saw Mira, whom they deemed mystical, come in with a baby of no origin.
On the other side, the Luna who ruled over the moonfang pack moved. She was known as Luna Marissa, feared among her people.*
Her robes were trailing with ash and power. Her crown of black iron caught the last trickle of moonlight.
She stopped by the firepit, where coals glowed like old embers of buried wars. The branding iron rested there, metal hissing where flame kissed it.
Her eyes fell to the mark on Lyra's tiny ankle, silver crescent hidden in Mira's hold.
A flicker of cold recognition was the look on her face, then her gaze found Mira's face. No words. Just that look, sharp as a blade in the dawn.
The child whimpered once. The iron hissed louder, as she was to give the directive to brand the child into the moonfang pack.
Just before that, an elder stepped forward, his robes old and heavy with years of dust and secrets.
In his trembling hands, he had a scroll, bound in red string and sealed with wax that cracked like old bones inside his saged body.
He unrolled it slowly, the parchment whispering like dead leaves. His voice scraped the hush, words heavy enough to bend every ear.
"This child, found on frost and border, bears no claim of bloodline nor house. She is marked… as omega. To serve the pack's breath and bone until her last howl fades."
The crowd shifted with dismay. Mothers clutched their pups closer. Warriors leaned on spears as murmurs slithered through their teeth.
"But she is Moon-blessed?" hissed one near the pillar. Another, voice sharp as flint: "Or perhaps it is a curse? That mark"
A single look from the Luna cleaved the whispers in half. Her eyes found each tongue before it spoke again. The courtyard fell back into silence, torches flickering low in fear.
She stepped closer to the elder, her cold hand curling over the scroll, pushing it down.
Her words slid through the mist like a blade. "Brand her well. Let none forget her rank — not the pack, not the wild, not the moon that dares claim her."
The Luna had always been ruthless in her judgment and very strict in her dealings.
Mira's arms tightened around Lyra's small body. The baby stirred, breath warm against her skin. Above them, the blood moon's last light bled into dawn, red as a wound that would never heal.
Mira's knees struck the cold stones after the Luna made her declaration, her cloak pooling in the frost.
Breath misted from her lips as she bowed her head, hair falling like a dark curtain over her eyes. Her arms trembled around Lyra's tiny body.
"Alpha Mother…" Her voice cracked, scraping against the hush. "Spare her face. Please. Let her carry the mark where sleep can hide it… where the moon can weep with her in dreams."
Luna's cold eyes swept over Mira, then down to the baby cradled tight against her chest.
She turned her head, slowly, letting the watching wolves feel her silence like a blade at their throats.
Somewhere near the pillars, the elder shifted with a victorious smile gleaming across his face.
His hand brushed the scroll, eyes flicking to the silver crescent on Lyra's ankle, the mark that shimmered even in the dying red light.
A sneer curled Luna's lips, thin as a cut. She turned to the iron resting in its bed of coals, flame dancing in her pupils.
"For your plea, wolf witch…" she hissed, voice sharp as frost. "Not the face then." Her gaze raked the circle of wolves, testing their breath, their fear.
"Brand her wrist," she snapped at last. "Deep enough, the gods remember it too."
Mira's hands curled tightly. Lyra whimpered in her sleep, moonlight catching her tiny clenched fist, still so small, warm, and still unbroken.
The elder finally got his holy grail moment. He then stepped into the courtyard circle with his hand wrapped around the iron, lifting it slowly from the coals.
Red heat dripped from its tip like a tongue of fire. Mist curled around his feet as he stepped forward, each breath loud in the hush.
Mira pressed Lyra tight against her chest, assuring her of the light which she is, her lips brushing the baby's temple. "Hush, moonlight… hush, little star… the dark won't take you." Her whisper shivered against Lyra's tiny ear.
The courtyard was filled with the smell of burning iron and old blood.
Pine smoke drifted from the torches, mixing with the breath of wolves standing still as stones, while they were watching everything.
A mother hid her pup's eyes in her cloak, for it was going to be a painful moment.
Lyra squirmed, a soft sound that broke when the iron touched her wrist; it was a kind of pain she had never experienced before.
A hiss, sharp and cruel. The mark bit into her skin, smoke rising where flesh met flame. Her cry rang through the stones, small but sharp enough to scratch every ear, even into the pack lands.
The elder's eyes flickered. Beneath his robe, his other hand clutched a torn scrap, a secret shape matching the silver crescent. Hidden from Luna's cold stare, hidden from the circle of waiting wolves.
Mira's tears fell, lost in the mist. Her fingers covered Lyra's burned wrist the moment the iron lifted.
Above them, the last trace of the blood moon sank behind the trees.
Mira held Lyra in her arms, the baby's small wrist wrapped in a strip of soft cloth.
Smoke still curled around the courtyard stones after she was marked, ghosting through the pillars as wolves drifted away in low murmurs and sharp glances.
She brushed her cheek against Lyra's hair, her breath shaky while she said to her, "Hush, little star. The night holds you, the moon knows you."
Lyra's eyes fluttered half-open, glazed with sleep and pain. Mira's tears blurred the red cloth swaying in the wind.
Past the mist, the elder stepped away from the dying coals.
He had just branded the baby among all the wolves of the moonfang pack
His robe brushed the frost, and something thin and yellowed slipped from his sleeve, a piece of parchment soft as old skin. Mira blinked, heart thudding.
Just before his hand snatched it back, she saw it; she knew it was the same silver crescent, faint but clear as moonlight on snow.
The elder's eyes met hers for a breath. No words passed, only the hiss of the wind between them. He turned, cloak swallowing the mark as if it never was.
Mira's arms tightened around Lyra. Somewhere deep in her bones, a cold truth stirred awake.
She pressed her lips to the baby's brow, rocking her as the shadows thickened behind the pillars.
But she knew that he also possessed the Moon's special mark.
Mira laid Lyra into the cradle of twisted branches after she had been branded, lined with scraps of old fur and soft moss.
The baby's tiny hand curled weakly against the rough blanket, the fresh mark on her wrist still angry red with pain scorching all over Lyra.
Moonlight spilled through cracks in the roof, silver beams that kissed her cheek and the cradle's edge.*
Mira brushed hair from Lyra's brow, whispering old words no other wolf dared speak. Her voice melted into the hush of the night, soft as snow on stone.
Outside, the forest pressed closer to both of them with branches scratching the hut walls like claws.
Mira's ears twitched at a sound, too soft, too careful. She turned, breath caught tight in her throat.
By the door of her hut in the pack, she saw a shape leaning close. A man's shape, ragged breath wheezing through cracked lips.
His fingers reached across the dirt floor, shadow stretching long to touch Lyra's bandaged wrist.
A creak of wood. Then a sound deeper than the wind with a low growl, thick and sharp like flint struck on bone.
Behind the cradle, the darkness rippled. A pair of silver eyes burned; it was a rogue who had come to take the baby away, the rogue's breath in his chest.
The shape stepped back, heartbeat hammering into the dirt. The growl grew teeth, silent but sharp enough to cut the night.
The rogue fled, bare feet tearing the frost. Mira did not move. She watched the eyes fade into the cradle's shadows, guarding what the moon had given.
In her sleep, Lyra's breath rose and fell like a soft tide. Moonlight slipped through the gaps in the roof, weaving silver shapes on her small face.
She drifted deeper, where no cradle walls could hold her.
Something warm brushed her cheek with the fur, softer than any blanket.
A shape circled her in the dark, paws quiet as falling snow. A silver wolf bent close, eyes glowing frostfire blue.
Its voice curled around her heartbeat. "Your mark is not a chain, little moon. Not forever." The words coiled under her skin, warmer than the cold.
Lyra's tiny fingers twitched. The wolf's muzzle touched her brow, breath a promise in the hush. Shadows thickened, swallowing the silver glow.