The fire smelled like home.
That was the cruelest part—how the scent of burning pine and fur reminded Lyra of warmth, of childhood, of nights nestled in her mother's lap beneath the stars. Those were sacred nights—when the stars danced just for the Silverfangs, when the wind sang through the trees like the voices of ancestors long past.
But that night, it wasn't comfort curling through the smoke.
It was death.
She couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Her throat was torn, her wolf silenced. She lay crushed beneath the shattered bones of the western watchtower, her ribs cracked, one leg bent the wrong way, blood soaking through the snow like spilled wine.
Her breathing came in short, shallow rasps. Pain bloomed across her body in jagged bursts, fading in and out like the last sparks of a dying fire. Her heartbeat slowed. Her fingers twitched once. Then went still.
Above her, the moon looked down. Pale. Unmoving. Unforgiving.
And through the smoke—through the haze of pain and ash and memory—she saw him.
The Alpha of Bloodveil.
Cain.
He moved like death itself. A tall shadow painted in black, wading through the ruin of what used to be her world. His dark hair was windblown, jaw flecked with blood. Amber eyes burned like twin suns in the smoke, glowing even through the dark. His stride was slow, deliberate, wolf-heavy. Dominance rolled off him like thunder—quiet, suffocating, total.
Around him, warriors knelt. Not to help. Not to grieve. But to submit. Even the surviving Silverfang elders trembled where they stood, lips painted red, bones exposed, as their throats opened beneath claws they never saw coming.
Lyra watched through blurred eyes as Cain bent beside her brother's body.
He touched his forehead briefly. Not with regret. Not even cruelty.
But reverence.
Or maybe something colder.
He whispered something Lyra couldn't hear. Then stood. Stillness radiated from him like heat from a dying flame.
Then—he looked up.
Right at her.
Her breath hitched. His gaze caught hers like a snare, and something in her soul screamed in warning.
And he smiled.
It wasn't kindness.
It wasn't mercy.
It was something ancient. Final. A predator's satisfaction at a clean kill.
She didn't know if it was pity or pride or something worse. But he saw her—broken, bleeding, still alive—and he turned his back.
No words. No claws.
Just that smile.
Just the end.
Lyra died with his name on her lips. Not whispered. Not mourned.
Spat.
She expected silence after death. Darkness. The soft drag of the afterlife pulling her under.
But instead—
Pain.
A sharp pull like claws in her chest. A heartbeat that wasn't hers. Heat. Brightness. Burning.
And then—
Breath.
She gasped, lungs raw, body arching from unfamiliar sheets. Her back arched, fists clenched, vision swimming in and out of focus. Her mouth was dry, her throat full of fire. Sweat slicked her skin. Her heart beat too loud, too fast.
She was alive.
She was… alive.
The realization hit like a falling star.
She blinked furiously, forcing her surroundings into shape. A stone room. Rough walls. Animal pelts layered thick beneath her. A hearth flickered in the corner, casting shadows like monsters across the floor. She smelled pine… blood… earth.
This wasn't Silverfang land.
This was something else. Somewhere else.
She pushed up weakly on shaking elbows. Her wolf stirred inside her, disoriented and sluggish.
Where are we?
What happened?
Then—
A low growl echoed from the far shadows.
Her instincts froze.
Something moved. Heavy. Pacing.
Then the door creaked.
And he stepped through.
Cain.
Alive. Larger. Older. His presence filled the doorway like a storm cloud. No armor now—just a dark shirt clinging to broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms were veined and blood-dusted. His jaw was sharper, more cruelly cut. His eyes—
Still gold. Still glowing.
Still the same eyes that watched her die.
Her heartbeat stuttered. But she kept her expression still. She didn't flinch. Not yet. Not until she was sure—
He didn't recognize her.
He stared at her like a puzzle.
Not a ghost.
Just… a rogue.
"You're awake," he said, voice low, like gravel and velvet.
Lyra didn't answer.
Her fingers curled around the fur blanket, knuckles white. Her body screamed at her to shift, to run, to rip him open. But she was weak. She couldn't show it.
Couldn't let him know who she was.
He stepped forward. Slow. Not cautious like he feared her—but controlled, like he was used to dangerous things.
"Your name?" he asked.
Her lips parted. The name Lyra burned the back of her throat like fire.
But she swallowed it.
"...Rae," she said. A whisper. A lie.
A flicker passed through his gaze. Suspicion. Interest. Memory?
But he nodded.
"You collapsed near the eastern ridge," he said, voice even. "No scent. No markings. Your eyes were glowing when we found you."
She didn't move.
"Do you remember anything?" he asked.
Everything.
The fire. Her brother's scream. His boots walking away as she bled out under the moon.
"No," she said softly.
He studied her. Too long. The air thickened between them.
Then—he stepped forward.
His hand reached out toward her wrist.
Too fast to pull away.
His touch closed around her.
And the mark ignited.
A searing shock exploded under her skin—just below her collarbone—where the Moon Goddess once touched her soul.
She gasped.
So did he.
They both froze.
A pulse moved between them—like a heartbeat that didn't belong to either of them.
His eyes darkened, narrowed.
He whispered, almost involuntarily—
"...Fated."
The word dropped like a blade between them.
Her mouth went dry. Her skin burned. Her mark—it was glowing beneath her skin.
But that was impossible.
She was dead.
She shouldn't have a mate.
Especially not him.
He dropped her wrist like it scalded him.
"This—this isn't right," he muttered. "It shouldn't be possible."
No. It shouldn't.
He was the Alpha who ended her life.
The one who destroyed her pack. Burned her home. Watched her die.
And now the Moon Goddess had tied her to him?
A growl built in her throat.
But she swallowed it. Buried it beneath her smile.
A cold, sharp thing.
"So what happens now… Alpha?" she asked, voice dipped in venomous sweetness.
He stared at her like she was a war he didn't know he'd started.
"Now?" he said. "Now you stay close. Until I figure out what the hell you are."
She smiled.
Not with amusement.
But with the icy promise of blood.
"Then we'll both find out," she said.
He turned and left the room, but not before casting one last glance back over his shoulder—eyes narrowed, jaw tight.
And Lyra… Rae… whoever she needed to be now—sat in the den of the wolf who killed her.
Alive. Fated. Hidden.
And already planning his end.