Beneath the Cursed Moon

A Fragile Deception

As soon as Kestrel left, Bran sat still for a moment, the pressure weighing heavily on his shoulders. His mind churned with a swirl of panic and frantic calculations. The moment the door clicked shut, he sprang into action, moving swiftly through the dim corridors of his estate. His footsteps echoed off the cold stone floors as he made his way toward the basement—a part of the packhouse known only to a trusted few.

The deeper he descended, the more his outward composure cracked, his usual calm giving way to the urgency that pulsed through him. The winding staircase creaked under his weight as he hurried down, his breath quickening. There wasn’t much time. Kestrel had thrown them a serious curveball, and they had to act fast if they were going to pull this off.

At the bottom of the stairs, Bran pushed open the heavy door that led to the heart of their operation. The sterile, dimly lit space buzzed with the quiet hum of machinery and the steady drip of IVs. The metallic tang of blood was thick in the air. In the center of the room, Lyra lay on the gurney, unconscious, her skin pale and marred by the signs of their continued harvest. Tubes ran from her arms to the blood storage machines, the bags already nearly full with crimson liquid.

Standing beside her was Rowan, his sharp eyes flicking toward Bran the moment he entered. Rowan was Bran’s closest confidant and the mastermind behind the intricate blood extraction system that had allowed them to maintain power. His tall frame cast long shadows across the room as he glanced at the machines, methodically checking the levels.

“Beta Rowan,” Bran barked as he approached, his voice sharp with urgency. “We’ve got a problem.”

Rowan straightened, turning to face him fully. “What now, Alpha?” He asked, though the grim tone in Bran’s voice had already put him on alert.

“Alpha Kestrel’s leaving tomorrow. He wants to take Lyra with him immediately, and he’s demanding a meeting with her tonight. That gives us hours at best.” Bran paced for a moment, running his hand through his hair as his mind raced. “We need to pull the blood harvest, get the healing serums into her system, and get her conscious. She has to be ready to meet him this evening, and she has to look—” He paused, locking eyes with Rowan. “—presentable. There can’t be any questions.”

Rowan’s expression darkened as he processed the information. “Tonight?” He muttered, his brows furrowing. “That’s impossible. She’s nowhere near recovered. We’ve pushed her further than usual, Alpha. There’s still more blood to collect, and even with the serums, she’ll be weak—there’s no way we can make her look even slightly healthy in a matter of hours.”

“I don’t care,” Bran snapped, the desperation creeping into his voice. “We don’t have a choice! Alpha Kestrel’s not stupid. If he sees her in this condition, he’ll start asking questions. We can’t afford for him to start digging deeper, especially with the deal on the line. If we delay or show any signs of weakness now, we’re done.”

Rowan’s face was set in a grim line, but he nodded. “Alright,” he said, turning back to Lyra. “We’ll have to stop the extraction immediately. I’ll administer the serum, but we need to give it time to work. She won’t be fully healed, but it should patch her up enough for a conversation.”

Bran exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and relief. “Do whatever it takes. Just get her back to her room, conscious and coherent. If she’s even half-lucid, it’ll be enough to get through the meeting.”

Without wasting any more time, Rowan moved swiftly to the machinery, carefully detaching the tubes from Lyra’s arms. The whirring of the machines faded as the blood flow ceased, and Rowan began preparing the serums. He filled a syringe with a pale blue liquid—the most potent healing concoction they had, designed to accelerate recovery from the trauma their harvesting caused, not to mention the beating Bran had inflicted earlier.

“This will help her body regenerate, but like I said, it won’t be perfect. If she had the ability to call upon her wolf, she would heal in a matter of two hours.” Rowan muttered, injecting the serum into Lyra’s arm. “She’ll still be fragile, and there’s no telling how coherent she’ll be after waking. She’s been under for hours.”

Bran paced anxiously, watching the process with narrowed eyes. “We can’t allow her to have access to her wolf, and she doesn’t need to be perfect,” he said through gritted teeth. “She just needs to be convincing. If Alpha Kestrel even suspects that something’s off, the whole alliance could crumble.”

Rowan injected another dose of serum into Lyra, watching the bruises slowly begin to fade as her body reacted to the medicine. “We’ll need at least a couple of hours before she’s ready to move. I’ll keep an eye on her while she stabilizes. In the meantime, you should make sure everything else is in order. If we’re going to pull this off, there can’t be any slip-ups.”

Bran nodded, though the weight of the situation made him feel like he was walking on a tightrope. “Fine. But if anything goes wrong tonight, if she’s not ready…” His voice trailed off, his face hardening as he turned toward the door. “It’ll be the death of the BlackFang pack.”

With that, Bran left Rowan to his work, his mind already spinning with the next steps he needed to take. Time was slipping away faster than he could manage, and every minute felt like a ticking bomb.