Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Whispers in the Flame

The wind in Moonshadow smelled of pine and smoke.

Lyra stood barefoot in the Circle of Embers—an ancient clearing ringed with smooth black stones and flickering torches. The sky above was black velvet, pierced with stars. Tonight marked the new moon. A time for rebirth. For truth.

Elara stood at the center of the circle, her silver hair braided with strips of wolf hide and bone charms that clinked softly when she moved. Luna's presence was calmer than ever, but Lyra didn’t miss the energy beneath her skin—something primal and alert, like a bowstring pulled taut.

“Why here?” Lyra asked, rubbing her chilled arms.

Elara motioned for her to step into the center. “Because tonight, we ask the fire to speak.”

Lyra hesitated. The air felt strange. Dense. Not dangerous—just full. Like something waited just beneath the surface of the world.

“What if I don’t want answers?” she whispered.

“You already do,” Elara replied. “But answers have a cost. Are you ready to pay for it?”

Lyra looked into the fire. It crackled and hissed, brighter than it should be. She nodded.

“I’m ready.”

Elara extended a bowl made of obsidian. “Blood opens the gate.”

Lyra took the ceremonial blade from Elara’s hand. Her fingers trembled, but she drew it across her palm quickly. Blood pooled in her hand, hot and dark.

She let it fall into the bowl.

The flames roared.

They shot high, licking the stars, and the world went silent. A hush so complete, Lyra thought time itself had stopped.

Then the fire turned blue.

Lyra staggered back, but Elara caught her wrist. “Watch.”

The flames shifted, forming shapes. Faces. Memories. *Visions.*

The first showed a young girl, maybe five years old, playing in the woods. Her laugh rang clear. A woman stood nearby—long dark hair, soft eyes. Her mother.

But another figure lurked just beyond the trees.

A man in ceremonial robes. A Bloodfang elder. Watching. Waiting.

The next vision came sharper. A circle of wolves. Chants in the night. Her mother—bound. Weeping. The elder from before pressing a hand to her belly. Lyra’s belly. She was in the womb.

Magic.

“Moon-Blessed,” Elara whispered. “But cursed by those who feared you.”

The vision changed again. Lyra, ten years old, waking from a nightmare. The elder standing over her, whispering into her ear—binding her wolf.

A forced suppression.

A silencing of power.

The fire flashed red now.

Another vision: Celeste, pouring wolfsbane into a tea flask. Slipping a letter into an envelope. Carrying a vial to a scout and whispering orders.

Then: Kade. Holding the letter. His hands were shaking. Looking torn. Then cold.

Choosing not to question it.

Choosing not to choose her.

Lyra dropped to her knees. “They did this to me.”

“Yes,” Elara said softly.

“I was cursed from the start.”

“No,” she said firmly. “You were feared from the start. But not cursed. The blood that runs through you is ancient. The elders of Bloodfang saw it. So did Celeste.”

Lyra’s jaw clenched. “They tried to erase me.”

“And they failed.”

The flames settled back into orange and yellow, flickering gently.

“You said answers come with a cost,” Lyra said, voice low. “What’s mine?”

“Truth brings clarity,” Elara answered. “But it also brings a decision. Now that you know, you must choose: Let the past be buried… or burn your way through it.”

Lyra closed her eyes. For a moment, she let herself feel the ache in her chest. The betrayal. The lies. The way she had begged for love and had been handed poison.

She opened her eyes.

“I want to remember everything,” she said.

“Then come,” Elara said. “It’s time you met the only wolf who ever escaped the Crimson Circle.”

That night, Lyra was taken deep into the Moonshadow woods.

A part of the territory most never walked. Not because it was dangerous—but because it was sacred.

Torches lined the narrow path through the thick trees. The shadows danced oddly here, as if the darkness had its own heartbeat.

They reached a cave mouth covered in moss. A guard waited outside, bowing slightly as Elara entered first, then motioned for Lyra to follow.

Inside, it was quiet, but not empty.

An old wolf sat by a pool of still water. His fur was mottled with age, silvered at the edges, his eyes milky with blindness—but his presence was massive.

“This,” Elara said, “is Ronan. He once stood among the Crimson Circle’s elite. He walked away from blood and darkness.”

Ronan’s head tilted toward Lyra. “You wear the scent of truth now,” he rasped. “And something else.”

“What is the Crimson Circle?” Lyra asked.

His expression hardened. “The oldest secret of the werewolf realm. An ancient sect. They prey on Moon-Blessed. Drain their power. Trade them like weapons.”

Lyra felt bile rise in her throat. “Why?”

“Because they fear us,” Ronan said. “Because we are unpredictable. Untamed. And because we are rare enough to be hunted.”

“Celeste… is she one of them?”

“No. But she is their pawn,” he said. “Her father was a Crimson hunter. So was her mother. She grew up on their stories. And now, she thinks by delivering you, she’ll be accepted.”

Lyra’s mind spun.

“So… what do I do?” she asked, voice shaking.

Ronan leaned forward. “You train. You awaken your blood. And you wait for the fire to burn in the sky.”

Elara nodded. “Because when it does… you will return.”

“To Bloodfang?”

“To everything they tried to take from you,” Ronan said. “And when you do, the world will see who they cast aside.”

Far from the Moonshadow caves, in the highest tower of Bloodfang, Celeste sat in front of a mirror.

Behind her, a shadow stepped out of the darkness—a man with crimson tattoos etched into his throat and arms.

“She lives,” the figure whispered.

“I know,” Celeste said, not looking up. “Let her get stronger. It’ll make her destruction even more meaningful.”

The man smirked. “You underestimate her.”

“I know exactly what she is,” Celeste said, rising to her feet. “That’s why I plan to become something worse.”