The pines in the northern forest were ancient—gnarled and tangled, whispering with secrets carried on the wind. Lyra moved through them with silent grace, the cold biting into her skin but couldn't calm the fire inside her. That fire had a name.
Damien.
She'd thought putting distance between them would smother the bond. That she wouldn't feel the pull. That if she buried herself in darkness and silence, the Moon's Call would fade. But it hadn't. It clung to her like a second skin, whispering things she didn't want to hear.
He's not the monster you think he is. she heard.
She shook the voice from her head. He was her enemy. Her mate. The irony was as cruel as it was inescapable.
As the trees thinned, she came upon a small village tucked deep in the woods—one she hadn't visited in years. Outcasts and rogues lived here, those who had turned away from pack life. She slipped her hood up and kept her face hidden.
She needed supplies. Information. And most of all—answers.
**
Inside the local tavern, the scent of wet fur and old whiskey stung her nose. Conversations buzzed in hushed tones, eyes tracking her as she entered.
"You don't belong here," a deep voice growled from the back.
Lyra didn't flinch. She turned slowly to face the speaker—a tall man with copper eyes and a jagged scar running down his jaw. Recognition bloomed in her chest like a bruise.
"Marcus," she said.
The rogue Alpha rose from his seat, eyes narrowing. "Didn't think I'd see you again."
"I could say the same."
They stared at each other, a storm of shared history crackling in the space between them. He had once been her safe place. Before everything burned.
"You're running," he said. Not a question.
"I'm surviving." she retorted.
Marcus's gaze dropped to the faint glow beneath her collar—her mark. His jaw tensed.
"Damien Vale?" he asked.
Lyra said nothing. And that was enough.
He laughed, cold and humorless. "The Moon has a twisted sense of humor."
"I didn't choose this." she whispered.
"No one does." He said while stepping closer. "But you could stay. Here. With me. Forget the bond. Forget him." he assured her.
Her heart ached. A part of her wanted to say yes. To run back to what was familiar. Safe. But the bond flared in warning.
"I can't," she whispered. "Not until I know the truth."
Marcus nodded slowly, masking the hurt in his eyes. "Then be careful, Lyra. Shadowclaw doesn't forgive. And Damien Vale… he's not the man you remember."
**
Meanwhile, in the Shadowclaw stronghold, Damien stood before the stone altar in the Hall of Ancients, his hands stained with ritual blood.
The Moon Priestess circled him, murmuring prayers to the old gods.
"She is resisting," the priestess said.
"I know."
"The bond must be claimed. Or it will break you both."
Damien's expression didn't shift, but his heart twisted. He could feel her pain through the bond, faint but constant. She was struggling. Fighting herself as much as she fought him.
"I won't force her," he said. "Even if it kills me."
The priestess stopped. "Then prepare. The next moon brings change."
**
Back in the village, Lyra stood beneath the stars, her breath misting the air. Marcus watched her from the doorway.
"There's something else you should know," he said. "A vampire envoy passed through here. They're preparing for war."
"Against who?"
"Everyone."
Lyra's blood chilled. The vampires had stayed quiet since the last treaty—but if they were moving again, it could only mean one thing: power was shifting.
And she was right in the center of it.
As she turned to go, Marcus caught her wrist. "If you ever need a place… come back. I'll protect you."
She gave him a sad smile. "I know."
She slipped into the trees, her mark glowing faintly against the moonlight.
Somewhere far away, Damien felt it too.
They were getting closer.