The valley was no longer still.
It breathed.
It hungered.
And on the sixth night after their arrival, it awakened.
The fires had been banked low, their light barely enough to hold back the suffocating darkness pressing against the camp.
Most of the Pack slept, too weary to notice the shift in the air.
But Lyra felt it immediately.
A coldness deeper than the night's chill.
A silence too heavy to be natural.
The silver wolf stiffened at her side, hackles raised, a low, warning growl rumbling from its throat.
Something was coming.
Something wrong.
She rose without a word, grabbing the blade strapped across her back — a weapon more ceremonial than useful against what she suspected lurked in the mist.
Still, the weight of it steadied her hand.
The valley demanded sacrifice.
Demanded a show of strength.
And if she failed this test, they would all die.
Not by the fangs of wolves.
But swallowed whole by whatever ancient nightmare ruled these forgotten woods.
The first scream tore through the night like a blade.
High.
Wet.
Human.
Followed by silence so absolute it stole the breath from her lungs.
Lyra didn't hesitate.
She sprinted toward the sound, the silver wolf a streak of moonlight beside her.
Branches whipped at her face.
Roots clawed at her boots.
The mist thickened around her, heavy and choking, turning every tree into a looming specter.
She burst into a small clearing.
And stopped dead.
Garrick — one of the scouts, strong and proud — hung limp in the massive jaws of a creature born from nightmare.
It towered over her — half-wolf, half-corpse, its flesh rotted and oozing black ichor, its eyes burning pits of hollow light.
A Hollow Beast.
Not a spirit.
Not a true animal.
But something summoned, something made — stitched together by the valley's dark will to test and devour.
The Hollow Beast dropped Garrick's shredded body to the ground with a wet thud and turned its hollow gaze to Lyra.
Its jaw unhinged, releasing a guttural, otherworldly roar that shook the trees.
Behind her, others from the camp stumbled into the clearing — Callan, pale and wide-eyed, and a handful of the stronger warriors.
They froze at the sight of the monster.
"Form a circle!" Lyra barked, authority snapping through her voice like a whip.
But she knew, deep down, that numbers would mean little.
This was not a battle they could win with brute strength.
It was a judgment.
And she was the one being judged.
The Hollow Beast lunged.
Faster than anything its size had a right to be.
Lyra dodged left, feeling the rush of fetid air as massive claws raked the space where she had stood.
The others scrambled to attack — blades flashing, spells whispered — but their weapons barely scratched the creature's matted hide.
It swatted Callan aside with a casual flick of its paw, sending him crashing into a tree with a sickening crack.
Rage boiled in Lyra's chest.
Not fear.
Not despair.
Rage.
The valley wanted her broken.
Wanted her afraid.
Wanted her dead.
And she would not give it the satisfaction.
She dropped her useless blade and shifted.
Bones cracked.
Muscles tore and regrew.
Her body lengthened, reshaped, until she stood not as a woman, but as a wolf — sleek, silver-eyed, rippling with unnatural power.
The Hollow Beast hesitated.
Sniffed the air.
And for the first time, it showed something almost like uncertainty.
Lyra attacked.
A blur of silver and shadow.
She struck for the joints, the throat, the vulnerable spots — trusting instinct and rage to guide her.
The Beast howled as she tore into its neck, black blood spraying across the ground, sizzling where it touched the earth.
But it was not enough.
The creature backhanded her across the clearing, sending her crashing into a boulder hard enough to make her vision go white.
Pain exploded through her side.
Broken ribs.
She forced herself to her feet.
Spat blood.
Growled deep in her chest.
Around her, the others faltered.
Their fear palpable.
Some edged away, ready to run.
And in that moment, Lyra saw the betrayal before it happened.
A small group — the weakest, the most frightened — turned and fled into the woods.
Abandoning her.
Abandoning everyone.
Cowards.
Traitors.
Good, she thought savagely.
Better to see their true hearts now.
Better to let the weak tear themselves away.
Because what was coming — what was brewing in the depths of the valley — would crush them all if they could not stand.
The Hollow Beast lunged again.
And this time, Lyra met it head-on.
No fear.
No hesitation.
She drove her claws deep into its chest as its own fangs sank into her shoulder.
Agony lanced through her body.
But she didn't let go.
She would not let go.
Power flared from her wounds — dark, ancient, the gift of the Hollowed King stirring in her blood.
It poured into the Beast, a torrent of fire and ice and raw fury.
The Hollow Beast shrieked — a sound so high and terrible that the trees themselves seemed to recoil.
Its flesh withered beneath her touch.
Its eyes imploded into twin pits of darkness.
And with one final convulsion, it collapsed, dead at last.
Silence fell.
The survivors stared at her, wide-eyed.
Some in awe.
Some in terror.
Lyra shifted back to human form, blood dripping from her wounds, her skin shimmering faintly with residual power.
She met their stares without blinking.
"Look at me," she rasped, voice raw.
"See me."
Not as a girl.
Not as a mistake.
But as the future.
As the necessary darkness that would carve their path forward.
If they could not accept that, they would not survive.
Simple as that.
Callan limped to her side, face bruised and bloodied but alive.
He knelt without being asked, bowing his head.
Others followed.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
But they came.
And above them all, the Savage Moon loomed vast and red in the sky.
Watching.
Always watching.
In the shadows beyond the firelight, unseen by the weary survivors, the valley shifted again.
Satisfied.
For now.
But its hunger was far from sated.