The air in Valerius Manor's hidden wing thickened with a tension colder than the deepest crypt. After Lyra's eyes flashed amber in the moonstone, a subtle but undeniable energy shifted. The quiet, watchful rhythm of their existence fractured. Lyra became a tightly coiled spring.
Her boundless toddler energy curdled into restless agitation. The intricate patterns on the tapestries no longer held her fascination; she paced the perimeter of their chambers like a shadow herself, her small footsteps echoing with unnatural heaviness on the stone. She snapped at dust motes dancing in moonbeams, her hand a blur Valerius barely tracked. Sounds Valerius had tuned out centuries ago the skittering of beetles deep within the walls, the distant hoot of an owl leagues away made her flinch and clamp her hands over her ears with a whimper. "Too loud, Papa! Make stop!"
Smells assaulted her. The faint metallic tang of the ancient pipes, the lingering scent of the rare herbs Anya brought, even the musty odor of old parchment Valerius found comforting all sent her scrambling back, nose wrinkled, sometimes sneezing violently. "Bad smells!" she'd declare, her voice edged with a frustration that bordered on panic.
Valerius observed with detached, clinical precision that barely masked his growing dread. The full moon was swelling in the night sky, a luminous counterpoint to the suffocating darkness within the manor. Its gravitational pull felt like a physical thing, tugging at the wildness buried within his daughter. He found himself standing unnaturally still for hours, a statue guarding a live grenade, his ancient mind racing through vampiric lore that offered no guidance for a half-wolf child's first change. His usual icy calm developed hairline fractures. He'd snap a brittle quill while mending a manuscript or silence Lyra's restless pacing with a look so sharp it made her flinch, only to instantly regret it, the unfamiliar pang of remorse cold in his chest.
Anya's visits became nightly, her face etched with deepening worry lines that mirrored the tension in the stone walls. She brought potent remedies: valerian root steeped into bitter tea to coax sleep (which Lyra often spat out), soothing balms of chamomile and calendula for her jangled nerves. But she also brought tools that turned Valerius's non-existent stomach: thick coils of braided hemp rope, wide leather straps softened with neatsfoot oil, and heavy iron rings.
One afternoon, while Lyra finally succumbed to an exhausted sleep filled with twitches and whimpers, Valerius and Anya stood in the cold hall. The ropes and straps lay on a stone bench between them, accusing and ugly.
"We must bind her, Nightwalker," Anya said, her voice low and rough with reluctance. "The first change… it's a storm. Terrifying. Agonizing. She won't know herself, her own strength. In that form, primal and confused, she could shatter her bones against these stones… or tear through that door, lost and vulnerable under the moon. Borak's scouts range far these nights."
Valerius stared at the ropes. The idea of shackling his child, treating her like a rabid beast, revolted him on a level deeper than his vampiric nature. He remembered Selene's descriptions of her own first change the wild, terrifying ecstasy, the feeling of bones singing as they reshaped, senses exploding into vibrant life. But Selene had been surrounded by her pack, guided by elders, protected by the communal howl. Lyra would be alone. Trapped within stone walls. Subjected to the restraint of a creature who represented the very darkness some wolves feared. "It feels like a desecration," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection but carrying centuries of cold fury.
"It is preservation," Anya countered, her amber eyes holding his dark gaze. "Think of it as swaddling cloth for the soul caught in a hurricane. We keep her contained within these strong walls. We keep her safe from herself… and from those who would destroy her. Only for the first few moons. Until the worst of the primal chaos passes." She touched the soft leather strap. "Padded. To prevent injury. Not cruelty."
Lyra's cry cut through their grim discussion not a whimper, but a sharp yelp of pain. Valerius was a shadow beside her pallet before the sound fully faded. She was thrashing, her small body rigid, tendons standing out on her neck. Sweat plastered her tawny curls to her forehead. "Hurts, Papa!" she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking. "Back! Legs! Like… like breaking!"
Valerius gathered her up, her small body radiating unnatural heat against his coolness. He held her stiffly, rocking slightly, a gesture learned from observation, not instinct. "The moon's call, little star," he murmured, his voice an unfamiliar rasp. "It… stirs the wolf within. It will pass." The lie tasted like ashes on his tongue.
"Wolf?" Lyra panted, opening eyes that were wide, dark, and filled with animal terror. "Like… like Gamma's stories? Big? Teeth?" She shuddered violently as another wave of pain hit.
"Like the wolves in Gamma's stories," Valerius confirmed, forcing his voice level. "Strong. Fast. A part of your mother's gift." He searched her terrified face. "But it may feel… overwhelming. Strange. If the change comes…" He paused, the words sticking. "Papa will be here. Gamma too. We will ensure you are safe." He couldn't bring himself to mention the ropes.
Lyra clung to him, burying her hot face against his cold doublet. "Safe with Papa," she mumbled, half-delirious with pain and exhaustion. "No wolf hurt Lyra with Papa."
Valerius held her, the weight of her trust a crushing burden. Safe. He was preparing to chain her. He was hiding the visceral horror of what awaited her. Kaelen's icy pronouncement echoed in the silent chamber: Abomination. Chaos. He felt like the architect of her betrayal.
Anya joined them, placing a weathered hand on Valerius's rigid arm. "You prepare the ground, Nightwalker," she murmured. "It is all we can do."
As true night fell, painting the high windows with inky blackness, Lyra's pain subsided into a fitful sleep. Valerius laid her down, her breathing shallow and quick. He looked at Anya, then at the ropes coiled like serpents on the bench. The full moon would crest tonight. The manor, their fortress, suddenly felt like a prison poised to explode. The ancient stones seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the wild storm contained within the small, sleeping form to break free. The moon's inexorable rise was a silent countdown to a transformation that would shatter their fragile world and test the limits of a vampire's oath to protect his impossible child. The ropes lay waiting, a stark symbol of the brutal reality descending with the night.