The attack came without warning. No herald, no trembling before the storm—only a scream that shattered the brittle silence like glass breaking.
Not pain. Alarm.
Then a second. Then silence.
Lyra's breath hitched in her chest before the instincts took over.
She was already moving.
The cold bit at her face as she tore through the dense pine grove at the edge of Icefall. Snow cracked beneath her boots, a brittle rhythm drowned beneath her pounding heart. Behind her, the wolves followed, sliding into formation like shadows obeying some silent command. Kael to her left—his expression tight, eyes sharp as broken glass. Rowan to her right, growling low in his throat, muscles coiled and ready. The silent warrior and the twins fell just behind, ghosts in the winter forest.
The scent of blood rode the wind, thick and metallic, curling into her nostrils and setting fire to her veins.
They had come.
Not the scouts.
Not the spies.
The hunters.
They did not come to observe this time.
They came to break.
The clearing opened like a wound in the forest. Lyra skidded to a halt at its edge, chest rising in ragged gasps.
The fire ring was overturned—blackened stones spilled like scattered bones. Snow, once pure and unblemished, was stained with dark, fresh blood.
A young wolf lay crumpled at the edge of the clearing, his throat torn open in a cruel slash that glistened wickedly in the cold light. His eyes fluttered weakly—half-lidded, distant. He was breathing, but barely.
Lyra's knees hit the snow without thought.
"Kael," she gasped, "he's alive, but—"
Kael was already moving, scooping the boy into his arms with surprising gentleness, his rough hands steady despite the blood slicking his fingers.
"Go," Kael urged, voice low but fierce.
Rowan let out a guttural growl and shot into the woods, hot on the heels of the retreating hunters.
Lyra didn't chase.
Her eyes burned with something colder than frost as she turned back to the fire circle.
The blood wasn't just a wound.
It was a message.
They hadn't gone after the seasoned, the marked, the bonded.
They had targeted the unmarked—the youngest, the newest, the most vulnerable.
They weren't trying to kill Lyra.
They were trying to prove she couldn't protect them.
By midday, seven wolves lay wounded in the makeshift infirmary.
Three of them seriously.
The healer worked without pause, her hands stained with red, trembling as she moved from one broken rib to the next. Each severed tendon, each shattered bone made her breath hitch, the air thick with the scent of blood and pine.
Lyra stood outside the infirmary, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the snow beyond the fragile walls, now streaked with crimson.
Kael approached, voice quiet, almost a whisper against the biting wind.
"They knew exactly where to hit. How to vanish without a trace. They're trained for this," he said, bitterness threading through his tone.
Lyra shook her head slowly.
"They weren't trained to believe in anything," she said. "That's what we have. That's what they hate."
Kael's eyes flicked toward her, searching.
"Belief doesn't stop blades," he said, voice rough with truth.
"No," Lyra agreed, voice firm, turning toward the fire circle once more.
"But it keeps us standing after they strike."
That night, the wolves gathered.
The wounded were tended with bandages and whispered prayers. The circle, scarred and broken, was rebuilt—stones reset carefully against the cold earth, a fragile heartbeat beneath the stars.
Lyra stepped into the center, her breath swirling like smoke in the frigid air. Blood had dried into the roots of the ancient stones, dark and stubborn as the memories etched in her mind.
"I won't promise that no more will fall," she said, her voice ringing out over the crackling fire, carrying on the sharp wind. "We are hunted. Not because we are weak—no. Because we dared to say we belong to no one."
Her eyes swept across them: the elder with frost-burned hands, the girl whose mating mark was cracked and faded, the child who had whispered her brother's name through tears.
"But we are not prey. Not anymore."
She reached down, sliding her dagger from its sheath at her boot.
The blade gleamed coldly beneath the moon.
With a sharp slice, she cut across her palm.
Blood dripped, vibrant and hot against the white snow, staining it like fire.
"If they want blood," she said, voice low and fierce, "then they can come for mine."
She raised her gaze, silver stormlight burning within her eyes.
"If they want fire," she said, "then let them see what it looks like when it doesn't burn out."
One by one, she looked at each wolf—silent promises made without words.
"From this day on, we do not hide."
Rowan stepped forward, voice low and dangerous, "Then we strike back."
Lyra shook her head, a fierce smile curling her lips.
"No."
"Then what?"
"We burn," she said, voice hard as ice and flame both.
"But we burn with choice."
The next day dawned cold and clear, the snow crisp beneath their boots.
The hunters came again.
But this time, the wolves were not waiting to survive.
They were ready.
Kael moved like a shadow among the trees, disabling traps with quiet precision. His hands were steady, his breath controlled.
Rowan met three hunters at once, his rage a living thing as he tore through their ranks, breaking their formation with sheer force. The silent warrior slipped through the chaos, her speed and grace like a blade cutting the air.
The others—every unbonded wolf Lyra had taken in, every discarded soul desperate for belonging—fought with something deeper than rage.
They fought with conviction.
The battle roared through the valley, the clash of steel ringing out like thunder. Snow melted where flames touched, hissing in the cold.
Lyra watched from the cliff above, heart pounding like a war drum, eyes sharp and unblinking.
And then he emerged.
The lead hunter stepped from the trees, blade raised, eyes like ice.
Lyra descended to meet him.
"You should've stayed forgotten," he sneered, voice cold and hard as the winter air.
"You should've stayed afraid," she said, stepping forward, her own blade singing in the light.
They clashed.
Steel against steel.
Blood against bone.
The Hollow surged through her veins—not as a curse, but as a birthright.
Flame marked skin seared in the cold, and every strike carried the weight of her past, her pain, her unbreakable will.
Her blade found his throat.
His eyes widened.
And this time, she did not hesitate.
He fell.
The snow drank deep.
Far beyond the Icefall, in a keep built on lies and secrets, a fire was lit.
The Council gathered in shadowed halls, faces grim beneath flickering torchlight.
"She killed the lead hunter," the voice said, low and edged with dread.
"She'll spark rebellion across all territories," another warned, fingers clenched tight around a carved bone dagger.
Merek turned slowly to Cain.
"You once killed her for less," he said, voice bitter with memory.
"Will you do it again?"
Cain's eyes glowed—caught between fury and something far more dangerous.
"No," he said.
"This time," Cain breathed, "I'll stand beside her."
The cold night carried the scent of smoke and blood.
The wolves of Icefall had ignited a flame no hunter could snuff out.
And the war had only just begun.