Chapter 2
1123 Words
Twenty-five years ago, on the night of a swollen red moon, Lyra Hale entered the world wrapped in love.
The night carried an unnatural stillness, as if the forest itself had paused to witness her birth. Wolves said the air was too heavy, the stars too dim, and the fire that burned in the Alpha’s den too wild. Some whispered that it was a sign that the child born under such a sky would carry something different in her blood. But when her cries first filled the air, no one spoke of curses. They only saw the joy on the faces of her parents.
Elara, the Luna, held her newborn close, her cheeks wet with tears of wonder. “Look at her eyes, Darius,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the tiny girl’s brow. “Silver, like the goddess herself.”
Darius Hale, Alpha of the Hale Pack, stood tall beside the bed, his voice steady with pride. “She is mine. She is ours. The moon has blessed this pack tonight.”
No one dared challenge his words. That night, warriors bowed their heads in respect. Mothers came forward to offer charms and blessings.
The Elders nodded, murmuring that a child born of an Alpha’s blood and the Luna’s grace was destined for greatness.
Some still wondered about the blood-red moon that lingered above their den, refusing to fade. They wondered why the fire in the hearth had burned twice as high that night, or why the wind outside had fallen silent as if waiting. But no one dared give voice to those thoughts.
For in the Alpha’s house, there was only laughter.
Lyra was cradled in warmth, surrounded by love. Her mother rocked her gently, singing lullabies that spoke of moonlight and destiny. Her father lifted her high in his arms before the pack, his booming voice declaring her a gift from the goddess. She was cherished from the very start, kissed and adored by all who looked upon her.
The strange signs of that night faded into memory, buried beneath the joy of new life.
No one yet knew how shadows cling to the brightest stars.
It happened on a summer night, when Lyra was no more than seven years old. The moonlight streamed into the Alpha’s den, painting silver shapes across the stone floor. Her mother had been preparing herbs by the fire, humming a soft song, while Lyra sat nearby playing with dried petals. She had always been curious, always eager to help, though her small hands often made mistakes.
“Not that one, moonlight,” Elara had said gently as Lyra reached for a crimson vial. “That is not a toy. It is strong medicine.”
Lyra had nodded, but the curiosity burned.
When her mother’s back turned, she tipped the vial, watching the liquid shimmer like blood in the firelight. She meant no harm, only wanted to see. But the smell filled the air, sharp and dangerous, and the next moment everything blurred.
The fire flared too high. Smoke choked the room. Elara cried out as the flames caught the dried herbs, spreading faster than either of them could react.
Lyra remembered screaming for her mother, remembering the feeling of strong arms shoving her toward safety. Elara had shielded her daughter, dragging her away from the collapsing beams. But a burning log fell before she could escape.
Elara’s body had taken the weight, her strength protecting Lyra even as the fire consumed her.
By the time the flames were put out, the Luna was gone.
The pack mourned. Songs of grief filled the air for days. Wolves whispered that it was a tragedy, that the goddess had called their Luna too soon. Few spoke of Lyra’s mistake, though some eyes lingered on her longer than before, heavy with quiet blame.
Her father never spoke those words.
Darius had gathered his trembling daughter in his arms the night of the funeral. His eyes were hard, his jaw unyielding, but his voice was steady. “You are not to blame, Lyra. Do you hear me? You are my daughter. Nothing will change that.”
Lyra clung to him, burying her face in his chest, the weight of his love the only thing that kept her from breaking.
For years after, she lived in the shadow of loss.
Without Elara, the house felt empty, the gardens untended, the songs silenced. Yet Darius tried. He taught Lyra to be strong, to stand tall, to never let the whispers of others wound her. She obeyed, for she wanted nothing more than to make him proud, to prove she was not a child of misfortune.
But tragedy has a cruel way of striking twice.
Lyra was fifteen when it happened. By then she had grown into a striking young girl, graceful yet restless, her wolf spirit still unawakened but her heart eager to prove herself. She wanted to join the warriors on patrol, to show she could protect the borders as well as any son of the pack.
One evening, while her father led a hunt, Lyra followed against his orders. She wanted to show him her courage, to earn the praise he had not spoken in too long. The forest was alive with the sounds of prey and the scent of danger, and her pulse quickened with excitement.
Then she made a mistake.
A branch cracked under her foot, a careless sound that echoed through the trees. The prey scattered, but something else stirred. Hidden in the shadows, rogues had been watching, waiting for weakness in the Alpha’s patrol. Her noise had drawn them in.
The ambush came swiftly and brutally. Wolves lunged from the dark, their eyes gleaming with hunger. The Hale warriors fought back, but the rogues were many. Lyra froze in horror, her limbs stuck in place. And at that moment of hesitation, her father saw her. He broke from the fight to reach her, his roar shaking the trees.
He reached her in time, his body striking down a rogue before it could tear into her. But the Alpha’s defense left him open, and claws found his throat before Lyra could even cry out.
The forest fell silent with his last breath.
When the survivors returned with his body, the pack was broken. Their Alpha was dead, their Luna long gone, and the daughter who had been the light of their lives was now seen as the shadow that had stolen both.
The whispers this time were not quiet. They did not pity. They accused her.
She brought death to her mother.
She brought death to her father.
She will bring ruin to us all.
Their grief turned to hatred, and their love to cruelty.
- Writer
