The Bloodbound Saga

The Pack’s Bully (Lyra’s Claim)

The Den Hall was tense. Word of the Mafia sigil found on Selene’s cloak had spread faster than wildfire throughout the dry timber. Werewolves were territorial creatures; they tolerated no threat, especially one marked by the enemy.

Dante stood at the head table, flanked by Kahlan. Selene stood at a respectful, but not subservient, distance away. The hall was full of wary, but suspicious faces. The air crackled with hostility directed solely at her.

“We found the sign of the Savior’s trackers,” Dante stated, his voice ringing with authority. “Selene is not a hunter. She is a quarry. She remains under my protection.”

The murmurs intensified, but before Dante could continue, a sharp, challenging voice cut across the room.

Lyra Kestrel rose from the Beta’s table, her slim frame radiating arrogance. She was dressed impeccably, a perfect counterpoint to Selene’s travel-worn leather.

“Under your protection, Alpha? Or under your spell?” Lyra demanded, her voice scornful. “She smells of stale cattle blood, betrayal, and now, the Mafia’s owner’s mark. You risked the entire Pack for a vampire who is a glorified piece of inventory!”

Lyra advanced, stopping just feet from Selene. Her eyes, filled with blazing, possessive jealousy, were fixed on the Alpha, not his guest.

“The Pack has rights, Alpha. Den Law is clear,” Lyra challenged, planting her hands on her hips. “Any non-Pack entity connected to the external war must prove its loyalty or be exiled. She failed her test two nights ago when that hunter died on our land. Now we find her marked. She is not a quarry, she’s a lure.”

Selene met Lyra’s venomous gaze. She wasn't going to let this jealous "pup" dismantle the fragile shelter Dante had provided.

“I am not a threat to your people, Kestrel. But I am clearly a threat to your standing,” Selene retorted, keeping her voice low and dangerous. “You speak of Den Law, but you crave only the Alpha’s attention. Your ambition stinks, not my blood.”

Lyra’s face flushed scarlet. She lunged, but not with claws, she used a vicious, entitled shove, aiming to knock Selene off balance and humiliate her publicly.

“You have no right to this territory! You have no right to our Alpha! I am the daughter of the Beta! I have a claim!” Lyra hissed, stepping back to wait for Selene to fall.

Selene didn't budge. She absorbed the shove easily, her sun-walker density making her feel like granite. Her pale gold eyes were cold, her composure terrifyingly stable.

“Claim is earned in blood and loyalty, Kestrel. Not lineage. You mistake entitlement for destiny,” Selene replied, her short sentences cutting like glass. “You want me gone? You want this seat? Then fight me in the sun, where all your moon-strength is nothing but a shadow.”

The audacity of the challenge silenced the room.

Dante slammed his fist on the table. The sound was a command. “ENOUGH! Lyra, return to your table. Your jealousy serves no tactical purpose.”

“It serves the Pack, Alpha! I speak the truth they fear!” Lyra shouted, ignoring his command in her fury. “She weakens you! You defend her while the hunters multiply! I should be your Luna! I have been loyal since birth!”

Dante stepped down from the platform, his large body intercepting the space between the two women. His presence was a raw, overwhelming dominance.

“My mate is chosen by my wolf, Lyra. Not by your lineage,” Dante growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that forced Lyra to flinch. “You will respect my choice. You will respect my guest. Or you will be censured by the Elders.”

Lyra was shaking, her jealousy turning into a burning, toxic hatred. She knew she had gone too far, but she couldn’t back down completely.

“Censure me, Alpha! But when the blood markets turn this Den into a footnote, I will be the one who remembers the old ways,” she spat, her tone now filled with ominous certainty. She backed away slowly, her eyes fixed on Dante with a chilling mixture of desire and rage. “I swear on the moon’s face, Alpha: I will be Luna someday. And when I am, this filthy sun-walker will be the first thing I purge from these lands.”

Dante watched her until she reached the door. The moment she was gone, the Pack’s tension eased slightly, but the rot she had introduced lingered.

“She is not finished, Selene,” Kahlan observed, her face grim. “She has the temperament of a viper, and the patience of a wolf.”

“I know the scent of a rival, Kahlan. I survived the Savior’s laboratory. Lyra is a skirmish, not a war,” Selene replied, though she felt a cold dread settle in her chest.

Dante finally turned to her, the heat in his eyes was a potent mix of gratitude and frustration. “You handled her with discipline. But your challenge was reckless. You gave her precisely the proof she needed that you are an unstable fighter.”

“I gave her a public defeat, Alpha. She will not risk a confrontation again,” Selene countered.

“Perhaps not in the open,” Dante murmured, his eyes sweeping the room, catching the lingering suspicion in the faces of the Elders. “The Pack is still divided. I must find the proof that breaks the Mafia’s connection to you. Now, follow me. We have business with the city front.”

As the three of them moved toward the Den’s entrance tunnels, Lyra was waiting just outside the main hall, concealed by the deep shadow of an archway. She was breathing hard, her hands clenched, humiliated but planning.

She watched Selene pass, then quickly and silently slipped into a small, shadowed nook where the Pack kept its traditional items: the Prayer Bundles. These were small sachets, tied with hemp and filled with local herbs, used for protection, healing, and luck before a hunt or a major decision. It was a custom Kahlan often encouraged for new guests.

Lyra’s eyes scanned the small bundles until she found one with a piece of dark leather tied around it, a gift Kahlan had prepared for Selene, intended to calm the night terrors caused by the trauma residue.

Lyra pulled a small, wicked-looking thorn from the inside of her glove. It was dark, almost black, and glistened with a thick, barely visible oil, a rare neurotoxin Lyra had acquired from a shady forest dealer, designed not to kill, but to paralyze and burn the nerves.

She swore her low oath again: "She will not be Luna. She will not survive my claim."

With swift, practiced malice, Lyra pushed the poisoned thorn deep into the center of the prayer bundle, ensuring it was concealed within the dry sage and juniper. She smoothed the leather, replaced the bundle, and melted back into the shadows, a vicious smile playing on her lips.

Would the poisoned thorn merely weaken Selene, making her incapable of fighting the Mafia hunters who were clearly closing in, or would the thorn’s powerful toxin, reacting with Selene’s unstable sun-walker blood, trigger an entirely unpredictable and explosive transformation?