Draven dismissed the pack's training session. He didn't want to risk anything even more horrifying happening to Lyra or his pack.
“I'll handle that rogue,” Cyrus volunteered to Draven.
“No!” Draven refused. “I'll deal with it myself.”
“Yes, sir.” Cyrus obeyed Alpha Draven's command.
After the incident that afternoon, all the forces were ordered back to the barracks early. Lyra remained sitting alone at the edge of the lake, staring at the reflection of the moon that had just emerged from behind the clouds.
“Why am I becoming like this?” Lyra was still bewildered by the changes happening to her. She still couldn't believe them. Silver traces remained in her eyes, though their light was slowly fading.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her. Maela approached, carrying a cloak, a glass of water, and an old scroll in her hands.
“Drink!” she ordered, handing Lyra the warm water. “You're shivering.”
Lyra accepted it without saying a word. Silence filled the space between them until Maela sat beside her and opened the old scroll, which looked like a star map covered in ancient symbols.
“You must be confused, aren't you?” Maela began. Lyra turned toward her, looking close to tears.
“Do you know something about me?” Lyra grew suspicious of the seer.
“What happened earlier wasn't an accident,” Maela murmured. “You are one of them. More precisely, you are the last descendant.”
Lyra turned to her, brow furrowed. “One of them? Who are you talking about?”
Maela pointed to the double crescent-moon symbol in the center of the scroll.
“Moonborn. Descendants of an ancient pact between werewolves and moon spirits. Once, they were guardians of the balance between night and day. But after the final betrayal, they became extinct. Hunted down. Then erased from history.”
Lyra shook her head. “That doesn't make sense. I—I'm nobody. I don't even know who my mother is. My father raised me.”
“That's exactly why.” Maela stared sharply at her. “You are the daughter of the last woman to possess lunar spiritual energy, and your father…”
Maela suddenly stopped speaking. Her eyes widened, and her breath caught.
Heavy footsteps sounded from beyond the trees.
Draven emerged from the darkness. This time, he wasn't alone. Behind him, a dark-robed figure walked slowly, its face hidden beneath a silver hood that reflected the moonlight.
“Your father,” Maela murmured, barely audible, “should have died twelve years ago.”
The figure stopped a few steps away from them, then slowly lowered its hood.
A face familiar to Lyra—not from reality, but from fragments of dreams and hazy memories.
“Lyra,” the voice said, somewhat hoarse, heavy, and full of pain. “I'm sorry it took me this long to come see you.”
Lyra's heart stopped for a moment. “Who are you?” Her voice cracked.
The figure stared at her and answered, “I am the reason for all of this. And the only reason you're alive.”
Suddenly, Lyra collapsed, unconscious.
Lyra stumbled through the twilight fog, everything feeling dark. She seemed to be running from the training grounds, her heart pounding wildly. Cold sweat began to dampen her temples—not because she was tired, but because she was afraid. Afraid of herself. After that power had emerged within her.
As soon as she reached the old wooden cabin at the edge of the camp, Lyra slammed the door and hurriedly locked it. Her breathing was still ragged, and her body trembled against the wall, gripped by fear.
“I don't want to become a monster,” she whispered, tears hanging in the corners of her eyes. In another moment, they would spill down her cheeks.
“I just want to live a normal life. Not be haunted by a power I never asked for.”
Suddenly, everything began to fade. Lyra looked around, trying to understand what was happening.
In the darkness, Lyra stood in the middle of a forest she didn't recognize. Towering trees surrounded her, while a white moon hung low in the sky, its light too bright, too alive. The scene was mysterious and frightening.
“Lyra,” someone called.
The person's gentle voice echoed from every direction, but no one was visible—not even to Lyra.
Lyra walked on alone, following a path lit by moonlight flowing across the ground like a silver river. She arrived at a great mirror standing between the trees. But when she looked into it, her reflection wasn't herself. It was someone else.
A woman dressed in ancient clothing stood there, her silver eyes shining brightly, a crescent-moon symbol on her forehead. Behind her, the world burned in fire and snow, two forces locked in battle.
“Who are you?” Lyra whispered. She wanted to know who the figure was.
The figure smiled sadly. “I am your shadow and the fate you rejected.”
The mirror shattered instantly, its fragments flying through the air around Lyra and piercing her chest like icy knives. She screamed.
Lyra's body shot upright from the small bed in Maela's cabin. She gasped for breath, cold sweat soaking her temples and the back of her neck. Her silver eyes had gone dark again, but the throbbing in her chest had not disappeared.
The cabin door creaked softly.
Draven stood in the doorway. He said nothing. His gaze was sharp, but not angry—more like he was afraid of losing something he didn't even understand yet about the mysterious phenomenon.
“Lyra,” he said softly.
Lyra couldn't move. She could only stare at him, unable to speak. Something began stirring in her chest again. Something she couldn't control.
‘Draven,’ Lyra called silently.
“NO!” Lyra screamed as she awoke from her nightmare.
Draven hurried to the underground archive, where Maela and Cyrus were studying ancient documents. Piles of scrolls and old books lay scattered across the table. Old candles flickered dimly, adding to the eerie atmosphere of the stone-dominated room.
Maela and Cyrus turned when the door opened.
“I need the records on the Moonborn,” Draven said without preamble. His voice was flat, but his eyes were filled with pressure.
Cyrus leaned against the wall, folding his arms. “You don't believe in superstitions, Draven. Why have you changed your mind now?”
Draven looked at both of them. “Because I saw it for myself, and I can't let it grow without direction.”
Maela was silent for a moment, then opened an old scroll sealed shut. She placed it carefully on the table and brushed her fingers over it until the crescent-moon symbol glowed faintly on its surface.
“If she really is a Moonborn descendant,” Maela whispered, her voice barely audible, “then she's not merely a Beta's descendant. Her energy structure, her magical bloodline—it's too pure, too powerful.”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Maela looked at him, worry flashing in her eyes. “We may not be dealing with an ordinary descendant. But with the direct bloodline of the lunar Alpha—the lost leader of the Moonborn who vanished hundreds of years ago. The First Blood.”
The room fell silent. Draven clenched his fists.
“If she really is Moonborn,” Cyrus repeated heavily, “…then she's not just a refugee. She's a weapon.”
Elsewhere, on the bank of a tranquil river, Lyra sat hugging her knees. Moonlight touched her pale face. The river flowed slowly, contrasting with the turmoil in her thoughts. Her eyes were swollen. She was tired of crying, tired of being afraid of herself.
Soft footsteps behind her made her turn.
“Draven?”
Draven didn't speak to Lyra right away. He simply stood there, then slowly sat beside her. Not too close, but close enough for Lyra to feel his presence.
Draven didn't ask about the incident earlier. He didn't mention the Moonborn, either. He said nothing about any power within Lyra.
“Ravencall doesn't need a weapon,” Draven said softly.
Lyra looked at him, her breathing still heavy as she waited for Draven to continue. “But I might need someone strong enough to choose his own fate.”
The words echoed in Lyra's heart like something she had never heard in her entire life. A confession—or perhaps a hope.
“I don't want to be anyone,” Lyra's voice cracked. “I just want to be free.”