The dawn never came.
The Savage Moon still ruled the sky, a dead eye staring down upon the broken world.
And beneath its gaze, Lyra prepared for a journey few had dared to even dream of — a journey into the forgotten heart of darkness.
The fortress was a ruin.
Bodies — friend and foe alike — littered the blood-soaked grounds.
The surviving Pack gathered in the central courtyard, their faces grim, their armor dented, their spirits frayed but not broken.
They waited for her word.
For her command.
Lyra stood before them, the shard of the Binding Stone secured in a leather pouch over her heart.
Its weight was constant — like a second heartbeat, one not fully her own.
She could feel it whispering to her.
Calling her deeper into madness.
Deeper into destiny.
Callan stepped forward.
He bore new scars now — a jagged line across his jaw, fresh cuts along his arms — but his eyes remained steady.
"Where do we go, Alpha?" he asked.
Lyra's gaze swept across her people.
Those who had bled for her.
Those who would bleed again.
"To the Vale of Whispers," she said.
Her voice rang out across the silent courtyard.
"To the place where the Mourning King dreams.
To the place where we will forge his prison."
Murmurs rippled through the Pack.
Fear.
Wonder.
Determination.
Drenna spat blood onto the ground and grinned.
"About damn time."
The preparations were swift.
There was little to pack — weapons, armor, a few grim supplies.
No food.
They would not need it where they were going.
The Vale of Whispers did not abide mortal hungers.
Only the hunger of souls.
Lyra led them beyond the gates.
Beyond the twisted forest.
Into the bones of the ancient world.
The land changed around them as they traveled.
The trees became skeletal, their limbs clawing at the sky.
The soil turned black, oozing foul-smelling mist with every step.
The rivers ran red, thick with the blood of things long dead.
And the sky…
The sky cracked.
Great jagged lines like fractures in glass, leaking thin streams of darkness that dripped down like poisoned rain.
The Savage Moon watched it all.
Silent.
Unblinking.
Days lost meaning.
There were no stars to mark time.
No sun to measure their march.
Only the endless, churning mist and the sound of their own breathing.
Each night — or what passed for it — Lyra's dreams worsened.
She saw cities drowning in black tides.
She saw wolves howling in agony as their skins peeled away, revealing hollow things beneath.
She saw herself standing before a throne of skulls…
and kneeling.
She always woke with her hand clutched around the shard, blood dripping from between her fingers.
Callan watched her.
He said nothing.
But she saw the questions in his eyes.
The fear.
The doubt.
And still, he followed.
They all did.
Finally, after an eternity of walking through the dead lands, they reached it.
The edge of the Vale.
It was not marked by walls or gates.
No stones.
No runes.
No warnings.
Only a sudden, brutal stillness.
As if the very world had been gutted and left hollow.
Mist rolled away to reveal a vast canyon carved into the earth — so deep that no bottom could be seen, so wide that even the strongest among them felt small.
Black spires jutted up from the abyss like the broken ribs of some ancient beast.
The air was colder here, heavier, thick with a pressure that crushed the chest and clouded the mind.
And in the center of it all — a single bridge.
Narrow.
Cracked.
Worn by time and sorrow.
It led into the mouth of the Vale, and beyond it… darkness absolute.
Lyra stepped forward.
The shard pulsed wildly against her chest.
She could feel the Mourning King's presence now — faint, but growing.
Dreaming still.
But stirring.
Hungering.
Drenna caught her arm.
Her voice was rough with fear barely leashed.
"Alpha… once we cross, there's no coming back."
Lyra met her gaze.
There was no hesitation in her.
Only grim certainty.
"I know."
She turned to the others.
"This is not a command," she said.
"This is a choice."
She looked each of them in the eyes.
"Cross with me, and we face death.
Stay behind, and you live.
I will not think less of you either way."
Silence.
A heavy, aching silence.
Then Callan stepped forward.
He bared his teeth in a savage grin.
"Where you go, I go."
Drenna grunted and followed.
Jast wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded grimly.
One by one, the others stepped forward.
Until none remained behind.
Lyra's heart swelled — with pride, with sorrow, with rage.
She nodded once.
Then she turned to the bridge.
They crossed together.
Into the jaws of forgotten gods.
Into the shadows of the first betrayal.
The bridge creaked underfoot, each step sending echoes into the abyss below.
The mist thickened.
Whispers rose from the depths — not words, but feelings.
Guilt.
Grief.
Despair.
Lyra clenched her jaw and pressed on.
The shard burned hotter.
The Mourning King's dream coiled around her, suffocating, seductive.
Give up, it hissed.
Lay down your burdens. Sleep. Forget.
She roared aloud, the sound tearing through the mist, banishing the whispers.
Her Pack joined her — a chorus of defiance, a declaration of survival.
At the far end of the bridge, black gates loomed.
Massive.
Sealed with ancient sigils that bled light like wounds.
Before the gates stood the Guardians.
Not wolves.
Not men.
Not Hollow Ones.
They were something… else.
Creatures wrought from grief and bone.
Their bodies long and twisted, faces hidden behind veils of cracked iron.
Each carried a blade longer than a man was tall, blackened by curses older than memory.
The first Guardian stepped forward.
Its voice was the grinding of tombstones.
"Who seeks entrance to the Vale of Whispers?"
Lyra drew her sword.
Her Pack mirrored her.
The shard burned like a star against her skin.
"I am Lyra," she said.
"Alpha of the Broken Moon.
Slayer of the Betrayed.
Bearer of the Last Binding."
Her voice shook the mist.
"I seek the Mourning King — to bind him once more.
Or die in the attempt."
The Guardians were silent.
Then, as one, they raised their blades.
"Prove yourself," the first intoned.
"Prove you are more than sorrow."
The gates groaned open.
Beyond them lay darkness deeper than death.
Beyond them lay the Vale of Whispers.
Lyra smiled — a savage, feral thing.
She stepped into the dark.
Her Pack followed.
No hesitation.
No regret.
Only fire.
And thus the last war began — not for land, not for power, but for the very soul of the world.