The air was too still.
It pressed against Ashwood like a lid sealing a coffin, thick with unseen weight.
Even the flames in the hearths burned low and blue, as if starved of breath.
Lyra knew the signs.
The elders of her childhood had whispered of it: a night when the Savage Moon would drift closer to the earth, drawn by tides of ancient magic and buried rage.
Moonfall.
And tonight, it was coming.
The first signs were subtle.
The younger wolves grew restless, pacing the perimeter walls without being told.
The older ones sharpened their weapons over and over, hands trembling slightly though they said nothing.
Even Callan — steady, unflappable Callan — snapped at Drenna over something trivial, their snarls echoing like cracks in fragile glass.
Lyra stood atop the broken tower, watching.
The moon was rising, swollen and huge, stained with a faint reddish glow.
It looked sick.
It looked hungry.
And it was coming for them.
She tightened the leather straps of her armor, tying her sword to her back.
Then she howled.
Not a command.
A warning.
A summoning.
The Pack gathered in the courtyard, weapons in hand, eyes gleaming too bright under the bleeding light of the moon.
She spoke quickly, voice cutting through the rising hum of unease.
"Tonight, you are stronger than you have ever been."
"Tonight, you are wilder."
"Remember who you are. Remember what we fight for."
They howled back — a ragged, fierce sound — but it barely masked the rising madness coiling through the air.
The young would shift first.
The old would shift hardest.
And some… some would lose themselves entirely.
Lyra prayed to gods she no longer believed in that she would not be among them.
The first snap of bone echoed across Ashwood as a boy barely sixteen fell to his knees, clutching his ribs.
Then another.
And another.
One by one, the Pack succumbed to the call of Moonfall.
Their human forms twisted, reformed.
Bones lengthened.
Muscles tore and reknit.
Claws burst through skin.
Lyra gritted her teeth against the pressure building inside her.
Her blood was on fire.
Her heart thundered like a war drum.
The shard's ember — the curse — pulsed in time with it.
Shift, it whispered. Give in.
She refused.
Not yet.
She had to see it first.
Gauge the cost.
Protect what she could.
A scream tore through the night.
Lyra whirled, spotting a young girl — barely shifted — caught between two full-grown wolves fighting savagely, blinded by the Moonfall rage.
Without thinking, she leapt from the tower.
Air whipped past her, and she landed hard, rolling up into a sprint.
She crashed into the battling wolves, wrenching one off the girl and hurling him aside.
The second snarled, slashing at her throat.
She caught the blow on her bracer, twisting, slamming the wolf to the ground.
It writhed under her, foam and blood flying from its jaws.
With a heavy heart, Lyra struck the wolf's temple with the hilt of her sword.
Once.
Twice.
Until he stilled.
She turned to the girl — wide-eyed, bleeding — and hauled her to her feet.
"Run," Lyra growled.
The girl fled into the relative safety of the keep.
Behind her, more fights broke out.
Brothers tearing at brothers.
Friends turning on friends.
The Savage Moon watched, silent and merciless.
Ashwood was falling into chaos.
And then the horn sounded.
A long, deep blast from the west wall.
An intruder.
Or many.
Lyra cursed under her breath and sprinted toward the gate.
Callan met her there, half-shifted, his face a war of human and beast.
"They're here," he snarled.
"Who?"
He bared his teeth.
"Ashfang."
Through the battered gates, a dozen figures emerged from the mist.
Tall, lean werewolves in tattered armor, their eyes burning with the light of Moonfall.
At their head was a woman — taller than any Lyra had ever seen, her silver hair braided with bones, her black furs stained with dried blood.
"Alpha of Ash," the woman called, voice carrying easily over the courtyard.
"We have come to see if your howl is worth answering."
Lyra stepped forward, every inch of her aching for battle.
"Who speaks?"
The woman grinned, revealing too many teeth.
"I am Varra Bloodbane, daughter of the Red Wastes, Huntmother of the Ashfang Clan."
She spread her arms wide.
"And tonight, under the Savage Moon, we will see if you are fit to call yourself Alpha."
Without waiting, Varra lunged.
Their bodies collided with a sound like a landslide.
Lyra barely ducked a vicious slash aimed at her throat, countering with a brutal kick to Varra's ribs.
The older wolf laughed — actually laughed — as she was thrown back.
"Good," Varra hissed, circling. "You've tasted war."
Lyra didn't respond.
Words were useless now.
She let the change come.
Not full — not yet.
Just enough.
Bones cracked, lengthened.
Claws burst from fingertips.
Eyes burned silver.
They clashed again.
Fists.
Teeth.
Claws.
A brutal, savage ballet under the bloodred light.
The Pack circled around them, watching, snarling, barely holding onto their humanity.
This was ritual.
This was law.
If Lyra lost, Ashfang would take Ashwood.
Take everything.
Minutes blurred into hours.
Lyra fought like a wolf possessed.
Like a storm given flesh.
At last, she caught Varra's arm, twisted it, forced the Huntmother to her knees.
Steel flashed — Lyra's dagger pressed against Varra's exposed throat.
Silence fell.
Even the moon seemed to hold its breath.
Varra grinned up at her, blood dripping from her mouth.
"Alpha," she rasped.
The Pack howled — a fierce, exultant cry.
Ashfang joined them, their roars shaking the stones of Ashwood.
Lyra released Varra, stepping back.
The Huntmother rose, bowing low — a gesture of surrender and respect.
"You have fire, Alpha of Ash," she said. "You have blood worth spilling."
And so, under the Savage Moon, two broken packs became one.
Ashwood was no longer just a refuge.
It was an army.
A storm waiting to be unleashed.
And far away, deep beneath the skin of the world, something smiled in the dark.