Seeing how stubborn and unyielding Lyra remained, Darius’s expression darkened. The faint glint of his wolf eyes—amber and cold—cut through the dim light of the council hall.
“Don’t hold back,” he commanded, his voice low but deadly. “Carry out the family punishment.”
The bodyguards, all seasoned warriors of the Halvorn Pack, lowered their heads. Their hesitation lasted only a breath before the first whip struck the marble floor and cracked across Lyra’s back.
The silver-threaded lash bit into her flesh, tearing through her gown like paper. Moonlight gleamed faintly on the strands of the whip—crafted with diluted moonstone dust to suppress a wolf’s inner strength.
“Lyra,” one guard murmured between blows, his voice trembling, “do you admit your mistake?”
Each strike echoed across the hall, heavy with ritual and cruelty. It was the punishment once reserved for traitors to the pack—ninety-nine lashes, each symbolizing a severed bond of loyalty.
By the thirtieth lash, the fabric of her gown clung to her skin, soaked with her blood. The metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the wild tang of suppressed magic. Her wolf whimpered inside her, but Lyra refused to yield. Her pride—her dignity—was all she had left.
Darius stood unmoving, his face a mask of cold discipline, but beneath it, something flickered. He wanted her to break, to scream, to beg—because only then could he convince himself she was still his.
But she didn’t.
At the thirty-third lash, her knees buckled. Her vision blurred, the world around her shrinking into black and white blurs of light and pain. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was her own heart pounding—steady, defiant.
That night, her fever soared beyond what any healer could explain. Her body convulsed under the moon’s pull, her wolf torn between agony and rage. They said a fever that high could burn away the wolf spirit itself.
For three days, she drifted between worlds—the living and the moon’s shadow realm—where whispers of ancient wolves echoed through her dreams.
On the third morning, she awoke to the faint ring of her crystal communicator. The device pulsed with a blue glow—Lucian’s mark.
“I’m three hours away,” his voice said through the link, deep and steady, like an anchor in the storm.
Exhausted but determined, Lyra pushed herself upright. Every breath felt like fire, but she refused to rest any longer. She packed lightly—only her ID sigil pendant, carved from her family’s old crest.
Just as she was about to leave, another message buzzed through the network.
It was Talia—one of her former trainees in the Mooncrest Guild, where Lyra had served as a diplomat and strategist.
“Lyra!” Talia’s voice quivered through the link. “When are you coming back? Alpha Darius let that Mireille take over your duties these past few days—she’s already ruined three trade pacts! Even the Duskmoore Clan broke their alliance with us!”
Lyra closed her eyes, a humorless smile curling her lips. “He didn’t blame her, did he?” she murmured, already knowing the answer.
“No! It’s like he’s under a spell. He won’t even listen to the council. He snapped at everyone who tried to question her!”
The irony stung. She remembered when she had made a single mistake in her early days as his adviser and Darius had gone silent for a week. That felt like another lifetime—when her heart still beat for him.
Her voice was steady as she replied, “Talia, I’m no longer part of the Halvorn Pack. You don’t need to report to me again.”
The silence that followed was heavy with shock. Then, slowly, Lyra ended the call.
Her decision was final.
But before she could take another step, her communicator flared again—this time with the crest of the MoonCorp. The elders.
