Beneath the Cursed Moon

A Wolf's Instinct

TW- abuse, blood harvesting

Kestrel’s expression clouded with a mixture of contemplation and suspicion, his brow furrowed as his instincts flared in the silence. There was a faint, metallic tang in the air curled around a contrastingly sweet honeysuckle scent, an odd and unsettling combination. It was sharp, cold, and unnervingly sweet, sending a chill down his spine, setting every nerve on high alert. His senses sharpened further as he inhaled, the strange smell gnawing at the edge of his awareness. Something was terribly wrong, though he couldn’t yet pinpoint what it was.

Instead of following his original plan and heading to the restroom, he hesitated. His wolf stirred inside him, bristling with unease. Trusting his instincts, Kestrel veered off into a nearby hallway, his movements swift and silent. The scent, almost like a whisper in the air, grew stronger with each step, more distinct, more deliberate, as though it were leading him. It was a call he couldn’t ignore, like a predator zeroing in on its prey.

As he ventured deeper into the pack house, the bright, welcoming spaces transformed into something far more ominous. The lighting became dimmer, casting long, twisted shadows along the narrowing corridors. The air thickened, heavy with an unspoken tension. His heartbeat quickened, thudding in his ears, though his steps remained soundless on the hard floor. Each step brought him closer to something sinister, something hidden beneath the surface of Bran’s carefully curated power.

Finally, the trail led him to a heavy metal door, its surface weathered and scarred with age and rust. Kestrel paused, his wolf instincts roaring a warning in the back of his mind. Everything about the door screamed danger—what lay beyond it was something darker than he had imagined. His hand hovered over the handle, hesitating for only a heartbeat before gripping it firmly. With a controlled, breathless push, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The scene that greeted him was something out of a nightmare.

Lyra lay strapped to a gurney, her delicate form barely recognizable beneath layers of bruises, cuts, and restraints. Her pale skin, once vibrant, was marred with evidence of brutality. IV lines stretched from her arms, but they weren’t meant to heal. Instead, they drained her, siphoning blood into sterile containers that sat nearby, grotesque in their purpose. The air in the room was thick with the sickly sweet odor of her blood mingling with the sharp tang of antiseptic. The metallic scent he had followed was unmistakable now, overpowering everything else.

Kestrel’s stomach lurched at the sight, a wave of nausea and fury rolling through him. His wolf surged forward, a primal rage building inside, demanding action—demanding violence. Every fiber of his being wanted to tear the room apart, to rip the perpetrators to shreds. But he held back, forcing his wolf down with every ounce of discipline he had. He couldn’t lose control, not now. He needed clarity and precision, not the reckless fury coursing through his veins.

His eyes locked on Lyra. She looked so fragile, so helpless, her body battered and drained. But it wasn’t just her physical state that fueled his rage—it was the injustice of it. The cruelty. The betrayal of trust, the disregard for life. His chest tightened, and in that moment, a powerful, unfamiliar sensation overtook him. *Protect.* It wasn’t just the duty he felt toward any ally or the desire to stop the madness. This was deeper. Primal. A fierce need to shield her, to pull her from this horror and guard her from harm.

He didn’t know why he felt it so strongly—he had never known Lyra beyond passing conversations and formal greetings. But this moment, this scene ignited something in him. It was undeniable. He would do anything to save her, no matter the cost.

But he had to be smart. Rage alone wouldn’t be enough to dismantle Bran’s power. Acting on impulse could mean disaster not only for Lyra but for his own pack as well. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to let his emotions control him. He needed a plan—something calculated - something strategic. He had to protect Lyra without tipping off Bran or the BlackFang pack. At the same time, he needed to distance himself from the alliance to diplomatically withdraw without sparking a conflict that could devastate his people.

Kestrel’s mind raced, forming plans within plans. He couldn’t rush this. Bran would sense weakness the moment he faltered. Kestrel’s movements had to be flawless. He would save Lyra—but he had to be meticulous, cold even if he wanted to succeed.

His gaze swept over the room again, his fury tempered by a cold determination. The stakes were higher than ever, and one wrong move could unravel everything. But Kestrel wasn’t about to let Bran win. Not this time. He turned, slipping silently back into the shadows of the hallway, the weight of his next move pressing heavily on his mind. He would free Lyra—but first, he needed to dismantle Bran’s control piece by piece and ensure his pack’s survival in the process.