The peace of the shared moment was shattered by a frantic pounding on the heavy obsidian doors. Lyraki's hand dropped from Elara's cheek, his expression hardening instantly into the mask of the Alpha King.
"Enter!" he roared.
A Lycan messenger, his chest heaving and his tunic stained with dark blood, stumbled in. "Sire, the Council of Elders… they have heard. The rumors of the 'Human Seer' have reached the lower packs. They claim you are harboring a traitor's seed and a harbinger of the End Times. They demand a Trial of Blood."
Elara felt the blood drain from her face. A Trial of Blood was a death sentence disguised as tradition. It was an ancient rite where the accused was cast into the "Pit of Whispers" a cavern beneath the fortress where the mental echoes of every Lycan who had died in madness were trapped. For a human-passing omega with mind-reading abilities, it wouldn't just be physical torture; it would be a total psychic annihilation.
Lyraki's eyes glowed a lethal crimson. "They dare question my judgment? Thorne's daughter is my property."
"They cite the Ancient Code, Sire," the messenger whispered, head bowed. "If she is the Chosen One, she must survive the Pit. If she is a curse, the Pit will consume her. They are gathering at the Gates of Obsidian."
Lyraki turned to Elara. For a second, she saw a flash of genuine conflict in his gaze. He needed her to solve the prophecy, but the political weight of his entire kingdom was pressing down on his shoulders.
"If I refuse, they will revolt," he said, his voice a low vibration. "If I agree, you will likely lose your mind before the first hour is up."
"I won't survive it," Elara said, her voice surprisingly steady despite her trembling hands. "You know what I am. I hear everyone's thoughts when they are just near me. A cavern full of dead, mad souls? I'll be dead in minutes."
Lyraki stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her. "Not if you learn to use the shield I felt in your mind. The human blood in you is a weakness, yes, but it's also a barrier. The madness of the wolves is a wolf's burden. You must find the human part of your soul and lock the door."
He grabbed a heavy silver cloak from the chair and draped it over her shoulders. "We go now. Do not speak. Do not look them in the eye. If you show them your power before we reach the Pit, they will kill you on the spot."
The descent into the bowels of the mountain was a journey into a nightmare. The air grew thick and damp, smelling of ancient moss and something metallic. The Council of Elders five ancient Lycans with fur as white as bone and eyes clouded by cataracts stood around a jagged hole in the floor.
"King Lyraki," the eldest, Malphas, hissed. His voice sounded like dry leaves skittering on a grave. "You bring the girl."
"I bring the key to our salvation," Lyraki corrected, his voice echoing with authority.
"We shall see," Malphas retorted. "The Pit does not lie. If she is the vessel, the echoes will bow. If she is the stain, they will feast."
Without another word, two guards seized Elara's arms. She looked at Lyraki, her heart screaming, but his face was a wall of stone. As they lowered her into the dark opening using a rusted iron cage, the silence of the mountain died.
At first, it was a low hum. Then, it became a scream.
Thousands of voices angry, grieving, insane tore through Elara's mind. Betrayer! Weakling! Why do you live while we rot? The mental pressure was physical; her nose began to bleed, and she collapsed to the floor of the cage as it touched the bottom of the cavern.
Lock the door, Lyraki's voice echoed in her head. It wasn't a physical shout; it was a mental command, sharp and focused, cutting through the static of the dead. Elara, find the center. Find the human silence.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against the cold iron bars. She visualized the obsidian shard the purple light. She imagined that light forming a shell around her brain. The screams grew louder, manifesting as shadowy figures in the dark of the cave, their clawed hands reaching through the bars.
I am not a wolf, she whispered to herself. I am the observer.
Suddenly, the screaming changed frequency. The shadows paused. Elara opened her eyes, and for the first time, she didn't just feel the pain of the dead; she saw the reason for it. They weren't just mad; they were mourning the lost moonstone.
She reached out her hand, not in fear, but in a strange, borrowed empathy. The moment her fingers brushed a shadowy form, a wave of silence washed over the cavern. The purple light of the Obsidian Heart flared from her chest, visible even through her clothes.
The ghosts recoiled, then began to kneel.