The forest was a breathless, silent void under the blood-soaked sky.
Lyra pulled her hood tighter against the cold wind that sliced through the trees, her boots crunching the brittle autumn leaves. Somewhere deep among the darkened pines, a wolf howled — low, mournful, and far too close.
She knew the signs. Tonight wasn't an ordinary night.
Tonight, the Savage Moon rose.
Every old tale whispered about it: the night the blood moon crowned the heavens, the night when the beasts stirred from ancient slumber, when men and monsters were no longer separate things.
And she could already feel it humming beneath her skin.
Lyra tightened her grip on the worn leather satchel slung across her shoulder. Inside it, wrapped in cloth, was the only thing that might save her — or doom her.
She didn't know yet.
"You shouldn't have come," murmured a voice from the shadows.
Lyra stopped mid-step. Her heart hammered.
From between two gnarled trees, a figure emerged — cloaked in black, a mask covering his face except for glinting golden eyes.
"Stay back," Lyra said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
The masked figure tilted his head, studying her.
"You carry it, don't you? The heirloom. The bloodstone."
Lyra flinched. She hadn't spoken of it to anyone — not even to the villagers who raised her, who whispered about her lineage in fearful tones behind closed doors.
"Give it to me," he said, voice roughened with something feral. "Before it's too late."
A second howl broke the night, louder, closer. The ground beneath Lyra's boots shuddered faintly. She took a step back, clutching the satchel to her chest.
"I don't even know what it is," she whispered.
The masked man hissed. "Then you'll die holding it."
Before she could react, he lunged.
Lyra stumbled backward, twisting aside as claws — claws — flashed in the dim light. His cloak flared out as he moved, revealing not hands but twisted, half-formed talons where fingers should be.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
He wasn't just a man.
He was already turning.
Lyra spun and ran, the trees blurring past her as adrenaline surged through her veins. Branches whipped at her face; thorns tore at her cloak. Behind her, the sound of pursuit thundered through the woods — footsteps, growls, the snapping of wood.
The blood moon above pulsed in the sky like a heartbeat.
Run, a voice screamed in her mind.
Run faster.
She didn't look back. She didn't dare.
Her breath burned her lungs by the time she burst into a clearing lit silver-blue by the moonlight. She skidded to a halt, gasping — and found herself standing at the edge of a crumbling stone well.
The Well of the Ancients.
Every child in Greystone had been warned never to come here. It was said the old gods slept beneath it, bound by curses thicker than blood.
And now, it might be her only chance.
Behind her, the creature snarled. Lyra turned just in time to see him leap — fangs bared, claws outstretched.
Without thinking, Lyra tore the satchel open and ripped the cloth away from the bloodstone.
It was no bigger than her palm, but it pulsed with a living crimson light, brighter and hotter than the sun.
As the light flared, the creature screamed — a horrible, ragged sound — and fell short, writhing on the ground, clutching his face.
Lyra didn't waste a second. She hurled the bloodstone into the well.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the ground shook — a low, resonating rumble that seemed to rise from the bones of the earth itself.
The trees bent as if cowering. The wind howled, carrying with it the scent of iron and smoke.
And from the mouth of the well, something answered.
A roar, ancient and wild, tore up from the depths — a sound that didn't belong in any human world.
Lyra staggered back, shielding her face as crimson mist erupted upward, swirling around her like a living thing.
The masked man — no, the creature — scrambled to his feet, terror stark in his golden eyes.
"You fool!" he shrieked. "You've awakened it!"
The mist coiled tighter, seeping into Lyra's skin, her bones, her blood. She gasped, dropping to her knees as fire ripped through her body. Every nerve screamed.
Visions flashed before her eyes — wolves tearing through battlefields, silver crowns stained with blood, a woman with eyes like hers standing atop a mountain of bones.
The heir awakens.
The words were not spoken aloud, but she heard them all the same, deep in her mind.
When Lyra opened her eyes, the world looked different — sharper, hungrier.
The creature took one step back, fear radiating from him in waves.
"You're one of them now," he rasped. "The cursed blood. The last of the Lunar Line."
And Lyra… she understood.
Somehow, deep down, she had always known she was different.
But she hadn't realized how much — or how little time she had left before everything inside her changed.
The Savage Moon was just beginning.
Lyra staggered to her feet, swaying as the burning inside her faded to a slow, throbbing ache.
The mist had melted into her skin, becoming part of her.
There was no turning back now.
The masked man — the half-turned beast — snarled but didn't approach. Fear held him frozen, muscles twitching as though torn between attack and retreat.
"You don't even know what you are," he spat, his voice rough and desperate. "You'll bring ruin to us all."
"I don't care," Lyra said hoarsely, surprising herself. Her voice sounded different — heavier, threaded with something primal.
She took a step toward him, and he flinched.
The blood moon above pulsed again, and with it, a new strength unfurled inside her. She could hear the heartbeat of the man-creature before her, rapid and stuttering. She could smell the acrid stench of his fear. Every color around her had sharpened — the blues of the night sky, the silvers of the leaves, the deep red stains hidden in the earth.
It was overwhelming. Exhilarating.
Terrifying.
A howl rose again, nearer this time, answered by others. Dozens of voices — wild, savage, and ancient.
The Hunt had begun.
"You're not the only one waking up tonight," the masked man said, stepping backward into the trees. "Others will come for you. They will smell what you've become."
"Let them come," Lyra whispered.
The man gave her one last glance — half fury, half terror — before turning and vanishing into the woods, his black cloak melting into the shadows.
For a moment, Lyra just stood there, the well behind her, the crimson mist still curling faintly around the stones.
She was alone.
Or so she thought.
A soft rustle behind her made her whip around.
There, on the far side of the clearing, stood a wolf — massive, silver-furred, its eyes a piercing blue that almost glowed under the bloody light.
It was no ordinary wolf. It radiated power, ancient and knowing.
The wolf tilted its head, studying her.
Not a threat. Not prey.
Something else.
Slowly, the creature approached, its movements fluid, almost regal. It stopped a few feet away and lowered its massive head in a gesture that felt almost like a bow.
Lyra's heart pounded. Somehow, deep inside, she understood the meaning.
You are one of us now.
The wolf turned, glanced once over its shoulder, and then padded silently into the trees.
An invitation.
Lyra hesitated only a moment before following.
The mist swallowed her as she crossed the boundary of the clearing, but this time, it felt less like a warning and more like a welcome.
Tonight, beneath the savage moon, a new chapter of her life had begun.
One written in blood, shadow, and the songs of wolves.
And she would not run from it.
Not anymore.