The wind howled through the valley like a dying beast, rattling the crude palisades and tearing at the tents.
The Savage Moon loomed massive and sickly in the sky, its crimson light staining the world in blood and shadow.
Lyra stood atop the altar stone, her silver hair whipping around her face like a banner of war.
Below her, the survivors — her people — gathered in tight, wary clusters, their faces pale and hard.
They had come to hear her decree.
To swear new oaths.
Or to rebel.
She smelled it on them.
The unrest.
The fear.
The challenge.
It sizzled in the air, thick enough to choke on.
And for the first time in weeks, Lyra welcomed it.
Let them test me, she thought, fingers tightening into fists.
Let them see what it means to defy a queen born of blood and ruin.
Callan stood to her right, bruised and limping, but defiant.
She had allowed him to stay, despite his doubts.
Despite the warning his eyes screamed every time he looked at her.
She would allow no others such mercy.
"You came to this valley as exiles," Lyra said, her voice carrying over the crowd like a blade sliding free of its sheath.
"You begged for survival. For strength. I gave you both."
Murmurs stirred among the gathered wolves.
Accusations hidden behind downcast eyes.
Fear wrapped in false loyalty.
"But survival has a price," she continued, stepping down from the altar, her bare feet silent on the cold earth.
"And strength demands obedience."
From the crowd, a figure stepped forward.
Marcus.
Big.
Brash.
One of the warriors who had fought at her side during the Hollow Beast's assault.
One of the few she had thought loyal.
"We fight," Marcus said, his voice steady but laced with anger.
"We bleed. But we do not kneel to monsters."
The word hung in the air like a slap.
Monster.
He was not just speaking for himself.
He spoke for many.
Lyra smiled.
A slow, savage smile that bared her teeth.
"Is that a challenge, Marcus?"
He hesitated.
Only for a breath.
Then he nodded.
So be it.
Without warning, Lyra moved.
Faster than human sight could follow.
She slammed into Marcus like a thunderclap, driving him to the ground.
He fought back — fists hammering, teeth snapping — but it was like trying to stop a flood with bare hands.
Lyra was no longer just a wolf.
No longer just a woman.
She was something more.
Something the valley itself had birthed to survive its cruelty.
She pinned him easily, one knee crushing his chest.
Her fingers closed around his throat.
Not choking.
Not yet.
Just reminding him — and everyone watching — how fragile he was.
"You think you can lead?" she growled, low and deadly.
"You think you can save them?"
Marcus choked, struggled.
But the light in his eyes told her he knew the truth.
He could not.
None of them could.
Only she could.
Because she was willing to do what they feared.
What they hated.
What they needed.
Lyra leaned close until her lips brushed his ear.
"Then fight harder," she whispered.
And broke his neck with a casual twist.
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
Shock.
Horror.
A few dropped to their knees without being asked.
Others backed away, their faces pale with terror.
Callan turned his face aside, his jaw clenched so hard she thought he might shatter his own teeth.
Lyra rose slowly, blood dripping from her hands.
She turned in a slow circle, meeting each gaze without blinking.
Daring them to challenge her next.
None did.
"You belong to me," she said, voice soft and terrible.
"And I belong to the valley."
That night, the mist rolled thicker and blacker than ever before.
The fires sputtered and died.
Whispers threaded through the camp — voices too ancient and cruel to be understood.
Lyra sat alone by the altar, her hands still stained with Marcus's blood.
And when the spirit came, she was not surprised.
It rose from the mist like a shadow given form.
Tall.
Crowned in thorns and ash.
Its eyes twin voids that drank in the moonlight.
It said no words.
It needed none.
Lyra felt its hunger.
Its offer.
Its price.
Power.
Dominion.
Victory.
All hers.
In exchange for the last shreds of her humanity.
The spirit extended a hand made of roiling smoke.
A simple gesture.
A terrible promise.
Lyra hesitated.
For the first time in months.
For the first time since the valley had swallowed her whole.
She thought of Callan.
Of the others.
Of the fragile, flickering hope they still clung to.
Hope that maybe — just maybe — she was not completely lost.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed deep of the cold, poisoned air.
And made her choice.
She reached out.
And took the spirit's hand.
Pain exploded through her.
A firestorm of agony that tore through flesh, bone, soul.
She screamed, the sound ripped from the depths of her being, echoing off the valley walls like a death knell.
When she opened her eyes, the spirit was gone.
But its mark remained.
Etched into her skin.
Branded onto her heart.
And the Savage Moon above wept black tears.
A new queen had been crowned.
Not in gold.
Not in glory.
But in blood.
And ruin.