Ashwood did not sleep.
Not tonight.
Under the bleeding light of the Savage Moon, the Pack moved like wraiths through the ruins — sharpening weapons, reforging broken armor, whispering low and urgent in the gutted halls.
Every breath was a countdown.
Every heartbeat a drumbeat of war.
Lyra stood atop the old battlements, her cloak snapping in the chill wind.
The scent of rain and iron filled the air.
A storm was coming.
But it wasn't the rain she feared.
Beneath her, the courtyard boiled with restless energy.
Ashfang warriors and Ashwood wolves intermingled uneasily, exchanging wary glances and occasional snarls.
Tensions were high.
Trust was thin.
And yet — they were here.
Ready.
Waiting for her command.
Varra Bloodbane approached, her silver hair damp with sweat, a savage smile tugging at her mouth.
"They will not hold much longer, Alpha," she said, voice pitched low.
"They thirst for blood. For purpose."
Lyra nodded, her mind already racing ahead.
The Hollow Court was coming.
She could feel it in her bones, like a slow rot beneath the skin of the world.
But waiting would be suicide.
They had to strike first.
Bleed their enemies before the blade fell.
"How many warriors can we field?" Lyra asked.
"Two hundred, if we strip the walls bare," Varra said.
"Three hundred if we drag the half-bloods from their dens."
Lyra considered.
They would need every claw and fang.
A low growl interrupted her thoughts.
Turning, Lyra saw him — a figure striding through the mist like a ghost wrought from ice and fury.
Kaelen Frostjaw.
Ashfang's oldest surviving champion.
His body was a roadmap of battles survived — scars crisscrossing his exposed arms, a chunk missing from his left ear, a long thin line bisecting his brow and cheek.
His eyes were cold — pale blue, almost silver — and utterly without mercy.
He dropped to one knee before Lyra without ceremony.
"Alpha," he rasped, voice like gravel.
"I offer my fang and fury. Command me."
Varra's smile widened, approving.
Kaelen was no easy man to win.
His loyalty meant something.
Lyra stepped forward, laying her bloodstained hand on his bowed head.
"Rise, Kaelen Frostjaw," she said.
"Tonight, we hunt."
The Pack roared approval, the sound shaking loose dust from the shattered battlements.
The Hunt had begun.
Their target was a settlement to the east — Grey Hollow — a former Ashwood outpost that had fallen to corruption months ago.
Rumors said it was now a staging ground for Hollow Court scouts.
If they struck fast, they could cripple the enemy's eyes.
They moved under cover of darkness, slipping through the broken woods like phantoms.
Lyra led from the front, her senses sharpened to an unbearable edge.
Every heartbeat, every breath of the Pack thrummed against her skin.
The shard in her chest pulsed in rhythm, murmuring promises of power.
Take them, the Mourning King whispered.
Show them your true strength.
She ignored him.
Mostly.
Grey Hollow rose before them like a canker on the land — blackened wood, crooked palisades, the reek of magic and decay thick in the air.
Shadowy figures patrolled the walls — not wolves.
Not anymore.
Twisted things, half-men, half-shadow, their faces hidden behind bone masks.
The Hollow Court's touch was clear.
Lyra signaled to her warriors.
Kaelen flanked left with Ashfang's best.
Callan led the Ashwood vanguard.
Drenna moved among the rooftops, a whisper with knives for teeth.
It was time.
She loosed a howl — short and sharp.
The signal.
Ashwood descended on Grey Hollow like a storm of claws and fury.
The outer sentries fell quickly, overwhelmed by sheer ferocity.
No mercy.
No quarter.
Every Hollow-warped soul they felled bled black and stinking onto the frozen ground.
Lyra fought like a creature possessed.
Claw and steel, fang and flame.
She cut a path through the heart of Grey Hollow, every step a defiance of the corruption that sought to root itself in her land.
But it was not without cost.
The Hollow Court had seeded their slaves well.
Trap-runes detonated in bursts of green fire.
Cursed chains lashed from the shadows.
Half her warriors fell within the first hour.
Still, they pressed on.
They had to.
At the center of Grey Hollow stood the Warden's Hall — a twisted, half-fallen keep wreathed in sickly green mist.
From its broken doors poured monstrosities — creatures once human, now little more than snarling hunger.
Lyra charged.
Kaelen was at her side, an avalanche of brutality.
Varra followed, singing an old Ashfang death-song under her breath.
They fought through the tide of horrors, every step a nightmare.
Lyra's sword broke.
She used her claws.
Her claws broke.
She used her teeth.
Finally, bloodied and gasping, she reached the dais at the hall's heart.
There, seated on a throne of bone, was a figure cloaked in shadow.
Not a man.
Not a wolf.
Something in between.
Its eyes gleamed with the cold fire of the Hollow Court.
"Ashwood burns," it hissed.
"Your Pack will kneel."
Lyra staggered, the shard flaring painfully in her chest.
Visions swam before her eyes:
Ashwood in ruins.
Her Pack enslaved.
Herself, crowned in chains.
The Mourning King's voice surged:
Claim your throne. Become what you were meant to be.
Lyra roared, a sound born of rage and agony and defiance.
She hurled herself at the creature.
They collided with a sound like shattering stars.
Magic flared, wild and deadly.
The world twisted.
When it ended, Lyra stood alone on the dais.
The bone throne shattered.
The figure gone — dissipated into ash and smoke.
Grey Hollow was silent.
Broken.
But freed.
She turned to her warriors — bloodied, battered, but victorious.
They howled her name.
A sound of triumph.
Of survival.
Of fear.
Because they had seen.
They had seen the darkness that lived inside their Alpha.
The power that had answered her call.
And they knew:
Lyra Ashborne was no longer just a wolf.
She was something else.
Something worse.
Something the Hollow Court would come to fear.
But so too might her own Pack.
Under the Savage Moon, Lyra raised her bloodied hand high.
And the night answered.
The war for Ashwood had truly begun.