Weakness exposes what strength hides.
The night air in the Shadow Vale was heavy with silence, yet Lyra felt everything around her screaming. The trees trembled. The ground pulsed beneath her boots like a warning. Every step toward the Blood Temple felt like walking into someone else's heartbeat — one not her own, yet deeply connected to her soul.
Beside her, Torin moved like a predator — too quiet, too sharp. His eyes scanned every shadow, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He hadn't said much since the ruins. Since she'd nearly lost herself to the bond, to the hunger. Something had changed between them, something they hadn't dared speak of yet.
"Say it," she said finally, her voice low and even. "You've been holding something in since last night."
Torin didn't look at her. "We're walking into a trap. And you know it."
"Then why are we still walking?"
He turned to face her then — and she hated the way he looked at her. Like he saw too much. Like the bond had turned her inside out and now he could read her thoughts, her fear, her fire.
"Because you're not running," he said simply.
And that was the truth. She should've turned back. But something had shifted in her. Ever since the blood bond awakened, she'd started to see differently. Fear still lived in her, but so did rage. And that rage was growing teeth.
They reached the edge of the temple just before midnight.
The Blood Temple wasn't a towering monument like the vampire sanctums of her youth. It was sunken into the earth, half-devoured by roots and time, its broken pillars curled with ivy. The architecture was neither vampire nor werewolf — but something older, deeper, like it had been built before either race remembered history. Yet magic still lingered. It hummed in the stone, like a living thing waiting for breath.
Torin sniffed the air. "Someone's been here."
"Good," Lyra said, stepping forward. "Maybe we'll finally get answers."
He caught her wrist before she could move further. "Or maybe we'll die."
She met his eyes squarely. "We're already dying, Torin. Every time we run, every time we deny what's between us — the bond eats us from the inside out. I won't wait to be hollow."
He didn't answer. But he didn't stop her either.
They descended.
Inside, the temple was colder than it should've been. The air clung to their skin, thick with dust and damp. The walls were carved with symbols neither of them could read — runes that shimmered faintly in her presence. Lyra stepped close and felt them burn warmer as she approached. Not pain. Recognition.
"What is this place?" she whispered.
Torin's voice was tight. "Old magic. Cursed magic."
At the heart of the room stood an altar. Not for offerings — for sacrifice. Dark stains marred the stone. Blood. Ancient, but still potent. And behind it, a mural, cracked and faded but unmistakable: a vampire and a werewolf standing beneath a full blood moon, hands clasped, eyes burning.
"Do you see that?" she asked.
Torin nodded. "Looks like prophecy."
"No." Lyra stepped forward. "It looks like us."
Just then, a voice echoed behind them. Cold. Feminine. Familiar.
"You shouldn't have come here."
They turned — and Lyra's breath caught.
Standing at the edge of the hall was Veyla, her cousin. Once her closest confidante. Now the one who had led her into the ambush weeks ago.
Lyra stepped forward, fury igniting her veins. "You betrayed me."
Veyla smiled, unbothered. "You betrayed yourself. The moment you bonded with him."
Torin growled low in his throat, but Lyra held up a hand. "Why? Why ambush me? Why drag the courts into war?"
Veyla's eyes flicked to the mural. "Because you were chosen. And that was never supposed to be your destiny. It was mine."
The words struck like knives. Envy. That was the rot at the root of it all.
"You knew about the bond," Lyra said slowly.
"I knew enough," Veyla said. "Enough to fear it. Enough to know what happens if it completes."
Torin's voice was flat. "What happens?"
Veyla's smile twisted. "You become gods."
The silence afterward was heavier than any blow.
Lyra's heart pounded. "That's why you tried to kill me."
"No," Veyla said. "That's why I'm here to finish what I started."
And then the shadows moved.
Figures emerged from the edges of the room — five, six, maybe more. Some were vampires. Some were wolves. All bore the same symbol burned into their chests — a circle split by a fang and claw.
Torin stepped in front of Lyra. "Cultists."
"They call themselves the Red Fang," Veyla said, almost proudly. "Formed to keep balance. To make sure no bond like yours ever takes root."
Lyra's pulse roared in her ears. "You sided with cultists to stop your own blood?"
"I am protecting our kind," Veyla hissed. "From you. From the chaos you bring."
Torin didn't wait for another word. He launched forward — claws extended. One cultist fell instantly, blood spraying the altar.
Lyra moved too, channeling the hunger inside her, letting the bond fuel her.
They fought like they were born for it.
Every time she struck, Torin was beside her. Every blow he missed, she covered. They weren't just bonded — they were synced.
The room exploded in blood and screams.
But it wasn't enough.
Veyla raised her hands. "Let me show you what happens when the bond is broken—"
And the air screamed.
Lyra fell to her knees, clutching her chest. Pain tore through her like fire. Torin roared, the same agony ripping through him.
"You're linked," Veyla said. "One suffers, both suffer. Let's see how long you survive this."
Her magic bled into the room like poison. The blood on the altar rose into the air, swirling like a storm.
And then — darkness.
Lyra saw flashes: fire. Wolves howling. The moon dripping red.
A voice echoed in her skull.
"One must fall for the other to rise."
She gasped awake, the vision gone, the pain fading. But she was cold. So cold.
Torin lay beside her, unmoving.
"No," she whispered. Crawling toward him. "Don't you dare."
His chest barely rose. Blood seeped from a wound near his heart.
Veyla was gone.
The cultists were dead.
And they were alone again.
But not safe.
Not yet.
Lyra gripped his hand, her body trembling. The bond pulsed between them, faint but present.
She bent low and whispered against his skin. "If one must fall, it won't be you."
Her fangs sank into her wrist, and she pressed the blood to his lips.
"Drink," she begged. "For me."
Nothing.
Then — a twitch.
A breath.
A growl.
Torin's eyes snapped open. Gold. Wild. Alive.
But not the same.
Something had changed.
And Lyra knew — the real war was only beginning.
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