ALPHA'S LAST REBIRTH

The first thing she felt was cold. The ground was wet beneath her, soft and uneven like decaying moss, and her fingers clawed at damp earth that crumbled under her nails. A low ringing filled her ears—dull at first, then sharp, like a scream underwater. Her eyes fluttered open. Above her, the moon hung huge and swollen, framed by a canopy of skeletal trees. Every breath she took tasted like iron and rain. And blood. Her body ached. Not the dull ache of a fall, or the tight soreness of overuse—this was deeper, strange, as though her muscles had been torn from the inside out. Her arms were bare, scraped, and stained red. Her legs were bruised, trembling. Her throat was raw, like she’d been screaming, though she didn’t remember doing so. She didn’t remember anything at all. A distant crunch echoed through the trees—footsteps. Her head jerked toward the sound. Panic bloomed in her chest. She tried to move, to run, but her limbs betrayed her, numb and shaking. Then came the voices—low, guttural, and not entirely human. “She’s awake.” “How is she alive?” “Look at the mark.” Leaves rustled. Shapes emerged from the darkness—figures cloaked in fur and shadow, eyes catching the moonlight like mirrors. Men and women, all tall, all bare-footed, moving like predators. One of them sniffed the air and bared his teeth. Another crouched low, not quite attacking… but not friendly either. “Stay back,” Lyra rasped, though the words felt foreign in her mouth. The group froze. A few exchanged glances. “Did she just speak?” a woman muttered. “She doesn’t remember,” a deeper voice replied. “Look at her. She’s still bleeding.” Lyra touched her side and winced. Her fingertips came away red, but the wound was already clotting—healing. Too fast. “What is this?” she whispered. The figures circled her in silence. “You’re one of us,” the deep-voiced man said. “Whether you know it yet or not.” Lyra’s heart pounded. Her breath caught—and then, fire. Her wrist seared. She cried out, clutching it, but the pain only grew. Under her skin, something moved—lines branding themselves upward like molten claws. The mark glowed bright red through her skin, then golden, then white-hot. She screamed. And the pack stepped back. As if afraid. She didn’t see who stepped forward. She only felt it—his presence. Heavy, commanding, electric. From the treeline, a figure emerged, slow and deliberate. She couldn’t lift her head. Could barely breathe. But she saw his boots. Mud-crusted. Scarred. Steady. Then his voice, deep and cold: “Let her fall.” Lyra collapsed. Her last flicker of consciousness clung to one image—his eyes. Gold. Sharp. Familiar. And watching her like he’d waited lifetimes. Lyra’s eyes snapped open again. The pain in her wrist had stopped, but a heavy fog sat on her chest. She blinked up at the trees. The moon was still there, full and bright. The forest around her was quiet now. Too quiet. Then she heard breathing—close. Not hers. She turned her head and froze. Six people stood in a circle around her. Men and women. Barefoot, dressed in rough clothes—some shirtless, some with long coats and scars across their chests. They looked wild. Their eyes glowed faintly under the moonlight. And every single one of them stared at her like they knew her. Or like they were deciding whether to kill her. The tallest among them, a man with a thick beard and arms like tree trunks, stepped forward. “She’s awake,” he said. “She shouldn’t be,” a woman near him muttered. “She should be dead.” Another man crouched beside Lyra. His face was narrow, his nose long and sharp like a wolf’s. He sniffed once, then pulled back. “She smells wrong. Not like one of us.” Lyra pushed herself up onto her elbows, even though her body screamed in protest. Her throat was dry. “Where… where am I?” They didn’t answer right away. “You’re in Ferndusk,” the woman said at last. “Our land.” “I don’t know what that means,” Lyra said. They stared at her. “She doesn’t remember,” said the tall man. “She has to,” another growled. “She has the mark.” One of them pointed to her wrist. Lyra looked down—and froze. Her skin had changed. A glowing mark sat just above her palm, shaped like a crescent moon with claws circling it. It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. Like it was alive. She touched it and flinched. “What… what is this?” The woman stepped closer, but the tall man held out an arm, stopping her. “She doesn’t know,” he said. “She will,” the other replied. Then the pack all looked past her—into the dark trees. Someone else was coming. Lyra felt it before she saw him. The air shifted. The hairs on her arms rose. A heavy silence spread across the group. Then footsteps. A figure stepped out from the trees, slow and calm. He wore black from head to toe. His face was hard, his jaw sharp, and a deep scar ran across his cheekbone. But it was his eyes that made her stop breathing. Gold. Burning gold. Focused only on her. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just looked at her like he knew something she didn’t. Something terrifying. Lyra couldn’t look away from the man with golden eyes. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, at the edge of the clearing, watching her like she was something dangerous—or something broken. The others didn’t speak either. Even the big man who’d led the group took a step back when the stranger appeared. The moment stretched. Then, her wrist burned. Sharp, stabbing heat burst beneath her skin. She gasped and grabbed her arm. The mark—whatever it was—glowed brighter now. It wasn’t just pulsing. It was changing. Moving. Lines spread out across her skin like fire tracing a path. The shape became clear—a wolf’s eye at the center, surrounded by sharp crescents like claws or moons. It lit up her entire forearm with golden light. Lyra screamed. She fell to her knees. The pain shot up her arm and into her chest, like her bones were trying to shift beneath her skin. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred. Her body wanted to move, to run—but her limbs locked in place. The others didn’t help. They just watched. “What’s happening to me?” she cried. No answer. The mark pulsed again—this time louder than a heartbeat, like a drum pounding in her ears. “Make it stop!” One of the women flinched. “That mark—it’s reacting to him.” Lyra looked up. The man with the golden eyes had stepped closer, just a few feet away now. His face was still unreadable, but his jaw was tight, and something burned in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or regret. “She’s not ready,” the big man said under his breath. “She’s waking up too fast,” someone else muttered. “I—I don’t know who you think I am,” Lyra whispered. The man finally spoke. His voice was deep and calm, but it hit her like thunder. “You will.” Her body gave out. Her vision went white, then black. And as she fell again, the last thing she saw was the golden-eyed man kneeling beside her—his hand hovering near her cheek but never touching. Like he wanted to. But didn’t dare. Lyra’s breathing was shallow, her body twitching on the ground. The heat in her wrist had faded, but something new was rising—deeper, darker. A sound built in her throat. Not a scream. Not words. A growl. It came without warning, low and wild, rolling from her chest like it belonged to something else. Her fingers curled into claws. Her shoulders tightened. Every sound in the forest grew louder—heartbeats, whispers, the wind moving through the trees. Her senses were sharp. Too sharp. She could hear their hearts. She could smell their fear. The pack took another step back. “She’s shifting,” one of them said quickly. “But it’s not a full moon,” another replied. “She doesn’t know what she is,” the big man muttered. “That’s worse.” Lyra tried to speak, but her mouth wouldn’t shape the words. Her jaw ached. Her vision turned red at the edges. She backed away from the circle, her knees buckling, her fingers scraping the dirt. Something was inside her—pushing to get out. “Stay back!” she cried, voice broken and hoarse. No one moved. They just stared like she was something about to explode. Then she locked eyes with the golden-eyed man again. And for a moment… the world went still. His stare held her, firm and quiet. Not angry now. Not afraid. Just watching. His chest rose once, slow and calm. “Breathe,” he said. His voice cut through the noise. She tried. Her hands steadied. The growl faded. The edge of the shift—whatever it was—slid back into the shadows. But the damage was done. The others looked at her differently now. Not just like a stranger. Like a threat. The tall woman narrowed her eyes. “She didn’t shift. She fought it.” “No one fights their first shift,” someone said. “Not unless…” “…unless they’ve done it before.” That silence came again. Heavy. Cold. Lyra didn’t understand what they meant. But she knew, deep down, that something inside her had been unlocked. And it wasn’t human. She turned toward the trees again—but this time, her legs gave out completely. The pain. The fear. The burning inside her bones. Too much. Darkness swallowed her again. Lyra drifted. Not fully unconscious—more like floating just beneath the surface of waking. Sounds echoed around her, blurred and distant. Voices argued in the background, sharp and tense, like a fire barely held back. “She’s dangerous,” someone whispered. “She’s not ready,” another hissed. “She doesn’t belong here.” No one said her name. No one knew it. But the one thing she could still feel… was him. The golden-eyed man. His presence pressed against her like gravity—silent, steady, undeniable. He hadn’t spoken again. He hadn’t moved much. But everyone else moved around him. Even the biggest man, the loudest woman, the snarling ones who wanted her gone—they all gave him space. Who was he? Her chest rose, then fell. Fingers brushed her wrist. Warm. Rough. Careful. Lyra stirred, just enough to hear a heartbeat—not her own. His. Slow, strong, and far too close. Then came the whisper—soft, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else. “You weren’t supposed to come back.” She opened her eyes just a little. The trees above swayed gently in the wind, and moonlight dripped through the leaves in silver strands. The man’s face hovered near hers—sharp jaw, scar along one cheek, eyes like melted metal. Not cruel, not kind. Just… tired. He looked older up close. Not by age. By weight. Like he’d been carrying something for years. His fingers hovered near her face again, paused, then lowered without touching. “She doesn’t remember,” someone said behind him. “She’s just a girl.” “No,” he replied. “She’s more than that.” Lyra’s lips parted, barely able to form a whisper. “Who are you?” His eyes flicked to hers. His answer was quiet. “No one you’re ready to know.” Then everything went black.