Chapter fourteen

The snow began to fall again when they left the ruins of the Archives.

Not the kind that signaled storm or danger. It was soft,haunting, almost beautiful but Lyra couldn’t feel it the way she once might have. The cold didn’t bite her. The wind didn’t chill. Ever since the vision, ever since the truth had settled in her bones, she felt half fire, half shadow. As though she no longer belonged entirely to the world that had birthed her.

Kaelen rode beside her in silence, eyes alert to every crunch of snow beneath hooves. Behind them, Veera and Halden whispered between themselves. The two scouts, trailing at the rear, remained tense—uneasy ever since the vision at the archives had triggered a magical surge that split the ground like a wound.

They didn’t ask questions.

But Lyra could feel it.

They feared her now.

“South pass up ahead,” Kaelen murmured. “Two days’ ride to the Accord’s northern post.”

She didn’t respond.

He looked at her sideways. “You’ve barely spoken.”

Lyra turned toward the horizon. The snowflakes glinted against her lashes. “I’m trying to think of how to explain to a continent full of wolves that I’m a ticking curse born from the ashes of a failed bloodline and still expect them to listen when I tell them I want peace.”

Kaelen let the reins slacken. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t reduce what you are to a curse. You carry history. Fire. Lineage. Truth. You don’t owe anyone peace. Let them fear you if they must. Let them learn to respect the fire, not beg it not to burn.”

She glanced at him. “You always talk like you already know how this ends.”

He gave a humorless smile. “I don’t. But I’ve walked through enough endings to know when one is close.”

They rode in silence after that.

By dusk, the mountains thinned. The forest spread below them like a waiting beast, treetops shivering in the wind.

That night, they camped on a ridge near the Ash village.

Lyra stood at the cliff’s edge, staring down into the woods that had once marked the boundary of the Nightshade Pack’s territory. It looked peaceful from above but she could feel it: the pull of something moving beneath. A shift in the weave of the world’s magic.

Kaelen joined her, his voice low. “Do you hear it?”

Lyra nodded slowly. “Something is stirring.”

“Not Hollowed?”

“No,” she said. “Something else. Something older.”

She turned to him. “The cycle. It doesn’t want to stop.”

His jaw tightened. “Then we break it. Again.”

---

They reached the Accord post the next evening.

An outpost built of silver and iron, it stood like a fortress among the trees, guarded by wolves. As they approached, a horn sounded. Watchers stepped forward.

One of them—a lean woman in crimson robes—narrowed her eyes. “You return. But changed.”

Veera stepped forward. “Stand down. The Moonborne returns under peace.”

The guards hesitated only a moment before stepping aside.

Inside, the post was buzzing. Maps covered entire walls. Scouts relayed sightings. There were whispers of Hollowed remnants still lingering, strange lights in the south, a ruined temple unearthed in the east—power awakening all across the lands.

And every whisper ended the same:

Lyra’s name.

Some spoke it in reverence.

Others in fear.

In the council chamber, Elder Ysara waited, flanked by two foreign delegates—one from the Mireclaw Pack, and another from the Eyrien mages.

“Lyra,” Ysara said, relief visible in the creases of her face. “We feared you would not return from the archives.”

“I nearly didn’t,” Lyra replied.

She looked toward the strangers.

The Claw alpha spoke first. “There’s unrest. The Iron Circle is gathering again. Not openly but in whispers. There’s talk of a weapon. Something drawn from the wreckage of the Rift.”

The mage added, “And worse. The Hollowed magic isn’t dormant. It’s moving. Infected bloodlines are surfacing. Wolves with no memory of how they turned—just hunger and shadow.”

Lyra crossed the chamber, stopping before the long table where the Accord’s map lay stretched. Her fingers traced the old border of Nightshade, then drifted east,toward a place that had been abandoned for a long time.

“There’s an ancient burial ground in the Silverdeep Valley,” she said. “My vision at the Archives—it showed me a shadow rooted there. A failed ritual. A sealed gate.”

Kaelen’s brow furrowed. “You think it’s opening?”

“I think it wants to open. And someone’s helping it.”

Ysara paled. “Who would dare tamper with a bloodgate?”

Lyra met her eyes. “Someone who doesn’t fear the Hollowed. Someone who wants them to return.”

---

The council dispersed before midnight.

Kaelen followed Lyra to her quarters, where she stood by the window, staring out into the night like it owed her an answer.

“You saw more in the archives than you’ve said,” he murmured.

She didn’t look at him. “There were others before me. Moonborne. Fire-branded. They tried to contain the Hollowed. Some failed. Some were consumed. All were erased.”

He stepped closer. “But you weren’t.”

She turned. “Yet.”

Kaelen reached for her hand. “Then let me say it again: I am not afraid of what you carry. I’ve seen what it can become when it’s left alone. I’ll stand beside it. I’ll stand beside you.”

Her voice was quieter now. “Even if I become the fire?”

He didn’t flinch. “Then I burn too.”

They stood in silence for a long time. Then, slowly, Lyra leaned in. Their foreheads met.

She whispered, “We leave tomorrow. Silverdeep. No more hiding.”

Kaelen nodded. “We go together.”

---

At dawn, a scout burst into the compound gates, bloodied and panting.

“They—they found something,” he gasped. “North of the Frost pass. A Old bones, still burning.”

Ysara came running. “What kind of bones?”

The scout shook his head. “Not just wolves. Children.”

Lyra’s heart dropped. “They’re starting the cycle again.”

She spun on her heel. “Prepare the packs. Get word to every Accord outpost between here and Silverdeep. If someone’s using old rites, they’ll need blood,fresh or cursed.”

Kaelen drew his blade, eyes burning. “Then we make sure they get nothing.”

---

The ride to Silverdeep took six days.

Along the way, they passed five abandoned villages.

Two were burned.

One was painted in blood.

In another, a child wandered alone,no memory, no name, her eyes void black.

They brought her with them.

Veera sat with the girl every night, whispering stories. Lyra kept her distance. The girl’s presence echoed. Something about her blood sang too closely to Lyra’s own.

They reached Silverdeep on the seventh night.

And what they saw stopped their breath.

The burial grounds had been unearthed. The earth was torn, clawed open from the inside. Massive runes—old and twisted—burned in the soil. A gate stood in the center of the valley, iron and bone welded together.

It hummed.

“Too late,” Kaelen muttered.

Lyra shook her head. “No. It’s not open yet.”

She stepped forward, but the girl—the child they’d found—grabbed her hand.

“Don’t go near it,” the girl said in a voice that wasn’t hers.

Lyra knelt. “What do you see?”

The girl’s eyes rolled white. “He’s watching you. Through the Gate. He remembers your name.”

Kaelen cursed.

Lyra stood slowly. “Then let’s remind him why he was sealed.”

---

They set camp half a mile from the Gate.

At dusk, Lyra sat alone before the fire, the child asleep beside Veera.

Kaelen joined her, his face grim.

“She knew your name,” he said.

“She’s a Seer,” Lyra replied. “Or what’s left of one.”

“And you believe the Gate is tied to your line?”

“I know it is. The Moonborne before me sealed it. And I—” She exhaled. “I’m the one the Hollowed keep whispering to. I think I’m the last.”

Kaelen stared into the fire.

“Then we end it here,” he said.

Lyra’s voice was steel. “No more cycles. No more cursed children. No more Hollowed.”

She reached across the flame.

He took her hand.

And beneath a sky smeared with stormlight, the fire between them did not flicker.

It burned.