The valley had changed.
Or perhaps, it was Lyra who had changed — and through her, the valley followed.
Either way, the difference was undeniable.
The mists no longer fled from the sun.
Instead, they devoured the daylight, leaving the world trapped in a twilight that never fully brightened.
The trees — once twisted and half-dead — now pulsed with unnatural life, their black roots drinking deep from the blood-soaked soil.
And the Pack…
The Pack had become something else entirely.
Lyra sat on a throne of cracked stone and tangled vines, her silver hair darkened by the blood of her enemies, her skin marked by ancient sigils that shifted and burned when touched by moonlight.
Her eyes — once sharp with mortal cunning — now burned like twin coals, impossible to look upon for long.
She was queen.
She was predator.
She was ruin made flesh.
Below her, the survivors trained endlessly, their bodies hardened by starvation, by cold, by the endless battles for territory against the creatures of the valley.
They had no choice.
Weakness was not tolerated.
Failure was not forgiven.
And Lyra's judgment was swift and final.
Tonight, she watched as two of her lieutenants, Rhea and Sorin, clashed in a brutal, vicious duel.
It was not sport.
It was survival.
A position in her new order was at stake.
Rhea was faster.
Sorin was stronger.
But strength meant little when facing a wolf who fought with desperation — and bloodlust.
With a savage cry, Rhea dodged Sorin's hammer-like blow, slashed her dagger across his throat, and watched him collapse in the mud.
Gasping.
Choking.
Dying.
The others watched silently, their faces blank.
Mercy was a memory none dared to recall.
Lyra rose from her throne, the ground cracking beneath her feet.
The mist coiled around her like a lover.
She approached Rhea, who knelt before her, bloodied dagger still in hand.
The young wolf's shoulders trembled — not from fear, but from barely contained exhilaration.
Victory.
Recognition.
Lyra placed a hand atop Rhea's head.
A blessing.
A branding.
The sigils on her palm seared into Rhea's scalp, binding her to Lyra's will.
A new captain for her dark army.
The ritual complete, Lyra turned her gaze outward — toward the edges of the valley, where the mist grew thicker and darker still.
There were others out there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The spirit had whispered to her the night before — its voice a cold breath against her ear.
"They come.
From the old blood.
From the shattered crown."
Enemies.
Old ones.
And new.
Those who remembered what Lyra's bloodline truly was.
Those who would never allow her reign to go unchallenged.
Good.
She was tired of waiting.
The drums began at dusk.
Low and rhythmic, beating from beyond the valley's borders.
A call to war.
Or a warning.
It made no difference.
Lyra answered it with a howl that shook the trees to their roots.
Her Pack joined her, their voices rising into a terrifying, ululating chorus.
The valley trembled under their fury.
The first scouts came at night.
Silent.
Swift.
Clad in armor of silver and bone, faces hidden behind snarling wolf masks.
They moved like wraiths through the woods, striking at Lyra's outer patrols with ruthless precision.
Testing her defenses.
Probing for weakness.
They found none.
Lyra met them head-on, her body a blur of claws and teeth and rage.
The silver in their weapons burned her flesh, but it did not slow her.
The spirit's gift made her something more than flesh and blood.
She was hunger incarnate.
She tore through the scouts like a storm, leaving broken bodies and shattered armor in her wake.
Blood slicked the stones beneath her feet.
The taste of it filled her mouth, hot and metallic.
Sweet.
Addictive.
When the last scout fell, gurgling on his own blood, Lyra stood alone amid the carnage.
The mist parted before her like a curtain.
And she saw them.
The true enemy.
The Warden Lords.
Tall and terrible, clad in cloaks woven from the skins of fallen alphas, their eyes burning with cold blue fire.
They were not men.
They were not wolves.
They were something older.
Something worse.
And they had come for her.
"Lyra Bennett," one of them intoned, voice like a grave cracking open.
"Daughter of the Forsaken Line. Queen of Ash and Bone. You trespass on sacred ground."
Lyra bared her teeth in a savage grin.
"I do more than trespass," she said.
"I claim it."
The Warden Lords raised their weapons — spears carved from obsidian and bone, gleaming with dark enchantments.
The ground beneath Lyra's feet split open, black tendrils of corrupted magic writhing outward.
The valley screamed around her.
And Lyra…
Lyra laughed.
She charged them without hesitation.
The battle that followed was unlike anything the valley had ever seen.
Magic and steel clashed in bursts of crimson light.
The earth cracked and bled.
The trees howled as their roots were torn from the ground.
Lyra moved through it all like a living weapon, her body singing with the spirit's power.
Each wound she took only fed her rage.
Each kill only made her stronger.
But the Warden Lords were no mere mortals.
They fought with the strength of ancient oaths, with the fury of forgotten gods.
And for the first time, Lyra knew she could die.
She didn't care.
If she was to fall, she would fall gloriously.
With blood on her teeth and her enemies' screams echoing in her ears.
Hours passed.
Or days.
Time lost all meaning.
Only the battle remained.
Finally, as the first light of dawn struggled to pierce the cursed mists, Lyra drove her claws into the heart of the last Warden Lord.
He crumpled with a sound like a mountain collapsing.
The others lay dead or broken at her feet.
She stood victorious.
But not untouched.
Her body was shattered.
Her mind fraying at the edges.
She could feel the spirit within her laughing, singing, exulting.
She had given herself to the valley.
And the valley had rewarded her with blood and ruin.
At the edge of her vision, she saw Callan.
Still alive.
Still watching.
His face a mask of horror.
Of grief.
Of love.
And Lyra knew then — with a clarity sharper than any blade — that she had crossed a line no power could undo.
She was no longer merely their queen.
She was their god.
And gods demanded sacrifice.
The Savage Moon blazed above, redder and closer than ever before.
And Lyra raised her bloodied hands high, her voice rising in a cry of triumph and damnation.
The Age of Ash had begun.