MOONBLOOD: THE ALPHA'S REGECTED MATE

CHAPTER 7: PROPHECY OF THE BLOOD MOON

The camp still hummed with tension from the standoff. Rogues moved carefully, casting wary glances toward the two alphas who refused to leave each other’s shadow. Somewhere in the forest, an owl called, the note thin and cold against the predawn hush.

Lyra sat cross-legged inside the healer’s tent. Smoke from dried sage curled in the air as Nessa ground herbs with steady hands.

“Hold still,” Nessa murmured, dabbing a cooling paste over the raw scrape along Lyra’s collarbone. “Your wolf came through hard yesterday. Body’s still catching up.”

Lyra swallowed. Selira stirred faintly, like a restless tide.

I barely remember what happened, Lyra thought.

You survived, Selira answered, her voice softer than before, edged with pride. But there is more… waiting.

The tent flap rustled. A ripple of silver mist slipped inside, unseen by Nessa. Lyra blinked—and the world shifted. The tent faded. Moonlight spilled across an endless black lake, and on its mirrored surface stood Elder Myra.

The seer’s eyes were white as winter frost. Her voice scraped like wind over ancient stone.

“Child of the Moonblood… you have slept too long.”

Lyra’s breath hitched. “Moonblood? I don’t—”

Myra raised a trembling hand.

“Your clan was fire and starlight once. Betrayed. Hunted. Burned until only whispers remained. Their blood runs in you, hidden. Waiting. Destiny’s thread pulls taut.”

Images crashed into Lyra’s mind—wolves of silver pelts, flames devouring a valley, a woman screaming as the moon wept red. She clutched her head, trembling.

“Who betrayed them?” Lyra whispered.

“Shadows wear familiar faces,” Myra crooned. “Trust lightly, child. Even the bond of mates may drown in ambition.”

The lake rippled crimson. Myra’s form wavered.

“When the moons align, the blood will rise. The world will kneel—or burn.” Her final words came as a whisper:

“Beware the hand that calls itself friend.”

The vision shattered.

---

“Lyra?” Nessa’s worried voice snapped her back. The tent, the herbs, the sage smoke—everything real again. Lyra’s hands shook. Sweat dampened her palms.

“I—just dizzy,” Lyra lied.

Outside, voices carried on the dawn wind. Damon’s deep timbre, Kael’s growl. Lyra’s skin prickled. She didn’t know that beyond the tent, Damon had caught the faint echo of Myra’s chant drifting through the veil between worlds.

He froze, the hair on his neck rising. Ares prowled inside him.

Prophecy. Blood. She’s in danger, the wolf growled.

Or we are, Damon thought grimly. He moved closer, lingering at the tent’s shadow, listening to every broken fragment.

---

By midday, Kael ordered “light training” to test Lyra’s control. He didn’t trust the tremor of power he’d felt the night before. Nessa insisted on supervising, murmuring prayers under her breath.

A circle of bare earth had been cleared beyond the camp. Rogues leaned on spears, curious, whispering about the girl who’d made two alphas freeze.

Lyra faced Nessa, palms damp. “What if I hurt someone?”

Nessa smiled, calm but sharp. “Fear doesn’t control you. Breath does. Balance does. Selira will guide you.” She tossed Lyra a weighted staff. “Block my swing.”

They moved slowly at first—tap, parry, shift. Lyra’s heartbeat steadied. Selira murmured rhythm in her veins.

Left. Pivot. Ground yourself.

But when Nessa feinted high and swept low, something primal surged. Selira roared, and light flared from Lyra’s skin—silver, cold, fierce. The staff splintered in her grip with a sound like thunder.

Gasps rippled through the watching rogues. Wind whipped outward in a sudden gust, tossing leaves and scattering dust. Nessa stumbled back, shielding her face. “Moon’s mercy!”

Lyra stared at her hands. Pale fire danced across her fingers, humming with the heartbeat of the moon.

Kael appeared at the ring’s edge, golden eyes blazing. Damon prowled behind him, jaw tight, torn between awe and the instinct to drag her back.

“Lyra,” Kael said, voice low, steady. “Breathe. Pull it in before—”

Too late. The ground trembled beneath her feet, cracks veining the dirt. Selira howled inside, unchained.

Lyra screamed—not in pain but release—as the silver blaze spiraled skyward, splitting the morning like a blade of light.

Every wolf present felt it—the weight of ancient power, older than any pack. Older than any crown.

And in the distance, crows burst from the treeline, fleeing into the sunless sky.