The scent of blood hit Lyra the moment she stepped outside the council hall.
Not fresh. Not human.
Wild.
Fermented rage clung to the morning breeze like a warning.
She lifted her hood as she strode through the outer gates of the keep, her cloak snapping behind her, boots striking the ground in sharp, defiant beats. The guards barely glanced her way; they knew better than to stop her when she wore that look.
Predatory. Focused. Dangerous.
Kael was already there, leaning against the corral gate, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in worn black leathers that clung too easily to his frame. His hair was tied back, loose strands falling around his jaw, and his eyes... they burned when they landed on her.
"You're late," he said simply.
"I had a meeting," Lyra replied, her tone clipped.
He straightened, taking a step toward her. "You also left my bed without a goodbye."
"We're not doing this here."
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "So there's still a place here to do it in?"
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because the truth clawed at her ribs Yes, there was still a here. There was still them, still this tension between touch and retreat. But now wasn't the time.
Instead, she gestured toward the trail of scouts assembling near the forest edge.
"What do we know?" she asked.
Kael's jaw clenched, but he turned. "Three farms torn apart near the border. They left no survivors, just a mark scorched into the ground."
"The old rune?"
"Worse." He handed her a scrap of parchment. Burned into the rough fibers was a single symbol, jagged, twisted, almost pulsating with something malevolent. "It's feral. Which means this isn't a rogue pack. It's a summoning."
Lyra's blood chilled. "Who the hell would summon them?"
Kael gave her a look. "You already know the answer."
She did.
There were rumors. Whispers of a breakaway clan of exiled witches who'd made blood pacts with feral wolves long forgotten by the living. If they'd returned, the border wouldn't hold.
Neither would their kingdom.
"We ride in twenty minutes," she said, tucking the parchment away. "Get your blades ready."
Kael caught her wrist before she could walk past.
His touch was fire.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
She turned her face up to his, defiant. "I don't need comfort. I need focus."
He leaned in, his voice low and rich. "Then let me be your distraction, just for a moment."
Her breath caught.
This wasn't part of the plan.
Kael leaned closer, lips grazing her ear. "Last night wasn't just sex for me. I know you're scared to feel something real—but you already did."
"I didn't—"
"You did," he whispered. "I felt it every time your body wrapped around mine like you couldn't let go."
Her knees nearly buckled. Damn him.
She didn't respond, not with words. Instead, she kissed him.
It was sharp. Desperate. A collision of tongues and tension and bruising mouths. His hands gripped her hips. Hers was fisted in his jacket. The kiss said everything she couldn't.
That she wanted him. That she hated how much. That she would burn the world for this, even as it destroyed her.
When she finally pulled back, both of them were panting.
"That's your goodbye," she said, lips swollen, eyes blazing. "Now saddle up."
The forest was too quiet.
Birdsong had vanished. The wind moved like it was afraid of what lay ahead.
Lyra rode beside Kael, her hand never straying far from the dagger at her thigh. Behind them, the rest of the riders fanned out, steel flashing in the shadows.
"Anything?" she asked.
Kael sniffed the air, his werewolf senses tuned to the smallest shift. "They're close. I can smell the rot."
A howl cracked through the trees—long, mournful, wrong.
Not a challenge.
A warning.
Then they saw the first body.
It was strung up in the trees, limbs disjointed, eyes wide and glassy. The throat was torn open, but it wasn't fresh. Whoever did this had enjoyed it.
"Shit," one of the scouts muttered.
Kael dismounted, inspecting the scene with slow, deliberate care. "This was ritualistic."
"They're baiting us," Lyra said.
He nodded. "And we walked right into it."
From the shadows, a growl answered.
Not one.
Dozens.
Lyra drew her sword just as the first feral lunged from the brush, eyes glowing red, mouth foaming with black spit, and claws extended like daggers. She twisted, dodging, slashing through its throat in a single arc.
Then chaos.
Wolves burst from the trees, shrieking with rage, limbs too long, jaws splitting wide like broken glass.
Kael shifted mid-swing, his bones cracking, body warping, and clothes tearing as fur exploded from his skin. His wolf form was massive, sleek, silver-eyed, and ruthless.
Lyra fought beside him, every movement a dance of death and flame. Blood sprayed. Screams echoed. But they held their line.
They always did.
Until the clearing fell silent again.
And Kael stood over a writhing wolf, his paw crushing its chest.
It wasn't feral.
It was aware.
And as it coughed up blood, it whispered, "You can't stop what's coming."
Kael shifted back, breath ragged. "What did you send at us?"
The creature laughed and died.
Lyra met Kael's gaze across the corpses. "That wasn't an attack."
"No," he said grimly. "That was a message."
And neither of them knew what it meant yet.
But whatever it was... it had already begun.