They summoned her before the sun had fully risen.
Not with fists. Not with threats. With silence.
A red-robed messenger waited outside her door when she awoke, eyes downcast, lips sealed. He didn't speak. Only handed her a thin strip of parchment.
She unfolded it slowly.
The Hall of Accord. All five will be present. So will the Elders. Dress in white. Do not bring weapons.—E.R.
E.R.
Elias Rune.
Lucien's shadow.
She traced the initials with her thumb. A warning disguised as a formality.
She burned the note in her candle flame and dressed in silence.
The Hall of Accord sat beneath the northern tower—vaulted and echoing, its stone floors worn smooth by generations of blood, oath, and consequence. Its windows were tall, but narrow, casting long blades of sunlight through the chamber.
Lyra entered through the center aisle with her head high.
The five Alphas were already seated in a half-circle at the far end, their chairs like thrones carved from obsidian and bone. Behind them, in the shadows, stood the three Elders—hooded, unmoving, ancient as the Pack itself.
Silas's eyes softened when they met hers.
Kael's were unreadable.
Lucien's mouth quirked.
Ronan… still bruised.
And Dorian?
He was smiling like he already knew how the story ended.
"Lyra Vale," said the center Elder. His voice echoed like old wood splitting. "You are called before the Accord to address the disruption of Pack order."
She said nothing.
"Your presence has stirred conflict. The hierarchy fractures. The Alphas turn on each other."
"And this is my fault?" she asked. "You put five wolves in a cage with one scent of blood and didn't expect them to bite?"
Lucien chuckled under his breath.
Kael didn't move.
The Elder ignored her tone. "A Rite of Submission has been declared. At dusk, you will enter the Hollow. You will yield. Or you will break."
"No," she said simply.
The silence that followed was thunderous.
"No?" Dorian echoed, his voice low with false amusement.
"You will kneel," growled Ronan. "Or we'll put you there."
Lyra took a step forward.
"I've knelt enough in my life. If you want me on my knees, you'll have to rip my spine out first."
A breathless pause.
And then Kael spoke.
"No."
Everyone turned.
Kael stood slowly, like a shadow lengthening across the floor. "This trial is flawed. You ask her to submit. But what if we've misjudged what she is?"
"She's a she-wolf," said the second Elder.
"She's the last," Kael replied. "And she didn't crawl out of extinction just to bow."
A murmur swept the chamber.
Kael looked at her. "I propose a Rite of Understanding."
Lucien tilted his head. "Now this should be fun."
The Elders conferred in hushed tones.
Finally, the central figure turned.
"Very well. The Rite of Submission is suspended. At dusk, you will enter the Hollow. Alone. The Rite will seek understanding."
"And if it doesn't find it?" she asked.
The Elder smiled.
"Then may the gods help you."
The Hollow was not a room.
It was a place of memory. A space beneath the earth carved by ritual and rooted in ancient blood.
Lyra stood barefoot on the threshold as the iron gate closed behind her.
There were no guards.
No flames.
Only darkness—and a thin trail of glowing runes leading deeper underground.
She followed them, each step colder than the last. Her pulse slowed. Her thoughts dulled. The silence wrapped around her like a shroud.
Then… the voice came.
"Stay close to the trees, little wolf. The forest listens better than men."
Her mother.
Lyra's breath caught.
The words echoed in the stone.
Not a memory.
A message.
The runes flared brighter.
And suddenly, the mark above her collarbone burned.
She gasped, falling to her knees.
The pain wasn't sharp—it was deep. Like something inside her bones had been woken and didn't know its own shape.
Then she saw it.
On the far wall, carved in ancient script:
She who does not kneel shall rise.She who bleeds the Alphas shall bind them.She who remembers will reclaim the name.
Her hands trembled.
The mark pulsed again.
And with it—her vision blurred.
When she emerged from the Hollow, hours later, the Elders were waiting.
Kael stood just behind them, arms folded, watching her like a riddle he was almost ready to answer.
"What did it show you?" one Elder asked.
Lyra raised her chin.
"It didn't show me anything," she said. "It remembered me."
She was halfway back to her room when Kael caught her arm.
Not roughly.
Not like Ronan.
Just enough to stop her.
"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Kael's gaze was too sharp. Too still.
"The prophecy," he said. "You're not just the last she-wolf. You're the she-marked."
"Is that what you think this is?" she asked, tapping the mark over her collarbone. "A brand of fate?"
He didn't respond.
But his fingers reached for the mark again.
And it pulsed beneath her skin.
"Something's waking," he whispered. "And if we're not careful, it won't just remember… it'll rewrite."
🖤 Mini-Scene: The Memory That Burns
That night, sleep refused her.
Lyra lay on her side, facing the wall, the room silent save for the occasional crackle of the hearth and the soft hiss of wind threading through the narrow window.
The Hollow's mark still pulsed faintly beneath her collarbone, warmth blooming in gentle waves like a heartbeat that wasn't hers. Her skin tingled. Her breath felt too shallow in her chest.
She turned over and stared at the ceiling.
The vision—the words on the wall—hadn't faded.
She who remembers will reclaim the name.
Reclaim what?
What name had been taken from her? What identity buried beneath fire and lies?
She sat up, the sheets falling away, damp with sweat. Her body still remembered the Hollow's touch—the cold, the silence, the whisper of her mother's voice echoing in her bones.
"The forest listens better than men…"
Why that line? Why now?
She rose from the bed, pulled Lucien's dagger from beneath her pillow, and paced. It felt heavier tonight. Not threatening—but weighted. Like it knew.
She moved to the desk and lit a fresh candle.
Its flame bloomed fast, tall and clean.
She stared into it.
"You're not just the last," Kael had said. "You're the she-marked."
What if he was right?
What if this wasn't about heirs?
What if they hadn't summoned her to breed—
But to awaken?
She flinched suddenly.
A sharp ache sparked along her spine.
Like heat. Like fire.
She pulled her shift down and turned her back to the mirror.
There.
Beneath the surface of her skin—barely visible—lines had begun to rise across her upper back. Like a pattern burned from within. Not scars.
Marks.
Not just Kael's. Not just power.
Memory.
She gasped softly and reached out to the mirror's edge as if steadying herself.
And that's when she saw it:
A second feather.
This one white.
Lying on her windowsill.
She hadn't heard anyone enter.
Hadn't seen a shadow move.
But someone had been here.
And they had left something else with the feather: a torn corner of parchment.
Scrawled in the center, a single line:
The last flame does not flicker. It consumes.
There was no name.
No signature.
But the scent on the parchment?
Lavender.
And smoke.