I let the mountain answer for me.
The Moon-root’s echo surged, dark and heavy, not cushioning the blow but redirecting it. The impact reverberated through my bones, but it didn’t break me.
It bent the world instead.
The warrior stumbled backward, eyes widening in shock as he hit the sand hard.
Silence rippled through the pit.
I stood there, panting, the ground faintly cracked beneath my feet.
Nicero watched from the upper ledge, expression unreadable.
When training ended, I could barely lift my arms.
I expected rest.
Instead, the elders summoned me.
They led me deep into the mountain, past doors sealed with sigils I did not recognize, until we reached a chamber I had never seen — not ritual, not war-room, but something closer to a tomb.
At the center lay a stone bier carved with hundreds of overlapping names.
“The Ledger of Fallen Bonds,” the eldest elder said quietly. “Every contract broken. Every oath betrayed. Every Luna and Alpha who believed themselves untouchable.”
I stepped closer, my heart pounding.
At the bottom of the slab, half-etched and glowing faintly silver-black, was my name.
Elira of Blackfang.
I recoiled. “What is this?”
“A warning,” he replied. “You are not immortal because you have suffered. If you forget why this mountain accepted you, you will join the ledger like the rest.”
My voice came out hoarse. “Then why bind me at all?”
“Because the Moon-root does not choose saints,” he said. “It chooses survivors.”
---
That night, the dreams returned.
Not memories — visions.
I stood in a forest I did not recognize, crimson leaves falling like blood-rain as wolves howled from every direction. At the center of the clearing, Lyra knelt before a jagged altar, her hands drenched in silver fire, the stolen heir suspended above her in a cage of bone-light.
Kael stood behind her.
Not as a tyrant.
As a worshiper.
I woke gasping, my sheets twisted around me, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The vision didn’t fade.
It lingered like a warning etched into my skull.
I found Nicero in the war chamber, studying border reports.
“She’s preparing something,” I said without preamble.
His eyes snapped up. “Lyra?”
“She’s deepening the blood-rite,” I replied. “I saw it — not a memory. A projection. The Moon-root is showing me fractures.”
His jaw tightened. “That shouldn’t be possible yet. You’ve only been bound for days.”
“I don’t think the Moon-root measures time the way we do,” I said.