The fire crackled softly inside the Hollow's command tent, but Lyra didn't hear it.
She stared at the letter in her hands, every word burning deeper than flame.
"They know. He's coming. You need to run."
There was no signature. Only the scent of rose ash—a perfume once worn by her mother's right hand.
Torin entered quietly behind her.
"Another warning?"
She nodded, folding the letter. "Someone in the Council doesn't want me dead."
"Or they want you afraid."
"I already am."
---
Outside, the Hollow was changing.
Since their victory against General Orien, word had spread across both vampire courts and werewolf packs. That Lyra Vexen and Torin Vale had done the impossible.
They hadn't just survived.
They had won.
Every day, more defectors arrived. Vampires who rejected the High Council. Wolves who were tired of dying in a war they never started.
But with new blood came new danger.
Strangers whispered at night. Weapons went missing. A scout was found dead near the river—no marks, but his eyes wide with terror.
Something was wrong.
And Lyra could feel it.
---
"We need to lock the camp down," Riven said as the inner circle met around the firepit. "No one leaves or enters without clearance."
"That'll spook people," Kaia replied. "And if we scare them, they'll run. Or worse—turn."
"Better they panic than die," Torin muttered. "Something is hunting us from the inside."
Lyra sat quietly, listening.
Then she spoke. "We don't lock the camp."
Everyone turned to her.
"We watch it."
---
By nightfall, plans were set.
Pairs of trusted fighters were assigned to every group. Food stations were guarded. Sentries rotated at random intervals. Hidden traps were set—small, nearly invisible things designed to alert them if anyone crossed lines they shouldn't.
And Lyra moved through the shadows like a ghost.
She didn't wear her cloak. Didn't speak.
She watched.
She listened.
And then she saw him.
---
A vampire she didn't recognize—tall, silver-eyed, too clean for someone "on the run"—was moving toward the western ridge.
He glanced behind him once. Then again.
Nervous.
Guilty.
She followed.
Through the rocks. Past the black tree stump that marked the outer edge. Into a patch of shadow so dense it nearly swallowed the moonlight.
That's where he stopped.
And waited.
Then someone stepped out from the trees.
Not a vampire.
A hunter.
---
Lyra didn't hesitate.
She slammed her elbow into the vampire's neck before he could react, dragging him to the ground.
The hunter drew a blade, silver edge gleaming in the dark.
But she was faster.
She swept his legs, disarmed him, and pinned him against a tree before he could shout.
He looked young. Too young. Maybe eighteen.
"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.
"Delivering a message."
"What message?"
He smirked, blood dripping from his split lip. "Your time is up. The King rides at dawn."
---
She tied them both and brought them to the center of the Hollow.
By sunrise, a crowd had formed.
The silver-eyed vampire looked straight ahead, defiant.
"I didn't betray you," he said.
"Lies," Kaia growled. "We tracked your steps."
He smirked. "I was buying time."
"For who?" Lyra asked.
The hunter answered.
"King Alaric."
Silence.
Even the birds stopped singing.
---
King Alaric was a myth.
The ruler of the vampire hunters. A man—or beast—born from the blood of both races and raised to kill them.
He was supposed to be dead.
"I saw him with my own eyes," the hunter said, smiling. "He's not just alive. He's angry."
Torin stepped forward. "Where is he?"
The hunter laughed.
"Closer than you think."
---
The Hollow went into lockdown.
Fighters were doubled on watch. Underground paths were sealed. A curfew was set.
But nothing stopped the fear.
Lyra sat in her tent, eyes on the candle flickering on her desk.
"What if we're not ready?" she whispered.
Torin sat across from her. "Then we get ready fast."
She shook her head. "He's not like the Council. If even half the stories are true—"
"They're not."
"You don't know that."
Torin leaned closer.
"I know you. And you're not weak."
---
That night, the dreams returned.
Lyra stood in a burning castle.
Blood on the walls. Screams in the halls.
And a throne of bones.
Atop it, a man cloaked in smoke.
He turned.
His eyes were fire.
And he smiled.
"You bear the mark," he said. "So you will die first."
She woke up screaming.
---
The next morning, three scouts were found dead.
No wounds.
No struggle.
Just cold.
And silence.
Lyra stood over their bodies.
Each had a symbol carved into the dirt beside them—a crown split by claws.
Torin stared at the symbol. "It's a message."
Lyra nodded.
"He's already inside."
---
They called an emergency meeting that night.
"This is psychological warfare," Kaia said. "He's trying to break us before he even attacks."
"It's working," Riven added grimly. "Some are already packing to leave."
Lyra stood.
"No one leaves."
"Then what do we do?" someone asked. "Wait for him to kill us in our sleep?"
She stared at the map.
"We don't wait."
She pointed to a mountain pass marked with red.
"He'll come through here. That's where we strike first."
Torin raised an eyebrow. "A trap?"
"A warning."
---
For the next two days, they prepared.
Weapons were forged.
Poisons brewed.
Messages were sent to nearby allies—packs and covens who might still honor old debts.
And Lyra trained harder than ever.
Every cut, every bruise, reminded her she was no longer the girl who wore silk gowns and feared her own shadow.
She was a fighter now.
She had to be.
---
On the third night, the message came.
A head—impaled on a spike—at the edge of the Hollow's entrance.
A soldier they'd sent for help.
And below it, a note.
"I see you. I know you. I'm coming."
Lyra burned it herself.
No one spoke.
But they all felt it.
The clock was ticking.
And the hunter king was almost here.
---