A sharp tang hung in the air beneath the trees - burnt wood mixing with something metallic, a trace of old fire clinging to every breath.
Under the crooked arms of a dead oak, Lyra stayed low. Moonlight leaked between leaves, sharp in her gaze. Below stretched what was left after fighting - trees snapped, ground burned, figures caught forever in their last moments. Witches gave everything they had. Still, the North came without pause. Creatures on four legs, not quite wolf, cut through the group too fast to stop.
Her grip tightened on the staff, its dark surface carved with glowing symbols that flickered at her fingertips. From here, the leftover magic stung the back of her throat - shattered incantations, dissolving rings, coppery traces of spilled blood thick in the breeze. Trees sagged like they carried a weight, limbs drooping where battle had scorched the ground below.
Out of nowhere, silence took her place - just a shiver in the wind remained, humming beneath each witch's skin like a warning they couldn't unhear.
From somewhere dark, a whisper came. Lyra.
Spinning around, she saw the girl rushing forward - her student - clothes scorched, wet strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. Breathless, the young one gasped, voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. Him... Kael Blackmane... nobody's slowed him down yet. Standing here won't change that. We're losing ground faster than we can speak
Over the ground below, Lyra looked slow. Not every wolf had changed into a person again. A few stayed as animals, hidden inside smoke and dark, their eyes bright with thought and want. Her head filled suddenly with Kael - no warning, just there, heavy like stone.
"He's not unstoppable," Lyra said, voice low, calm, though her hands trembled. "No one is. Not if we plan correctly."
Kneeling down, she scratched a ring into the soil, marking symbols that shimmered just slightly. From her fingers came tiny flares, drifting upward, tangled in the dark air like something breathing. Arrogance - that's what the Alpha dreads most, she said. Blind trust from his group follows him always. And there, exactly there, lies their break
A lump rose in the young learner's throat as light twisted like ribbon at Lyra's fingertips. Yet his voice cracked anyway, caught between awe and disbelief
"Clever." Lyra finished the thought for her, eyes glinting. "Yes. And dangerous. But clever is not invincible. The forest remembers, the blood remembers, and the coven…we remember, too."
Quiet spread through the open space after Lyra spoke, like even the leaves had paused to hear. Far off among the trunks, one wolf raised its voice - not friendly, not soft, but sharp into the dark.
Her heart jumped - sharp, sudden. Not just fear drove it. That cry in the dark held more than sound. Thought lived inside it. Maybe even memory.
Her gaze dropped, pulling attention sharp to the group. Every move planned. Each step measured. Emotion set aside.
"Gather the others," she said, rising. Her staff tapped against the forest floor, leaving a trail of glowing symbols. "We regroup at the eastern glade. Spellcraft is strongest there, and we can turn the terrain to our advantage. If they think the war is over, they are fools. The war has only begun."
Fog clung low as the clearing stayed tucked beyond cracked spells and tangled roots. Some came slow, in pairs or threes, dragging steps through leaves, sleeves ripped, cheeks streaked with dirt beneath silver light. A glance passed among them - bloodied knuckles, sunken eyes, yes, yet something held tight behind each stare. Not every witch survived the path here; only those raised where magic meant burden, not choice, had made it this far.
Through the crowd she walked, eyes scanning each bed, a quiet word here, there. Yet nothing held her thoughts except Kael Blackmane. Wards were checked, hands briefly touched shoulders, but her head stayed far away. One name kept turning inside her - the man with dark hair, dangerous eyes. Even while speaking, even when nodding, he filled every corner of her attention.
Out front was where he'd been when they moved in. Her tricks did not stop him. That look came his way - eyes meeting across the space between
Shaking her head, she pushed it aside. That glance didn't matter. In battle, wanting things just gets you hurt.
And yet…
A tug low inside her gut made her pause, breath catching. Not magic. Not some inner voice warning her either - no, deeper than that. Older than names. Something sharp waited there, coiled without permission.
Focusing elsewhere felt easier. Still, thoughts lingered despite her effort.
A whisper cut through the air. "High Witch," someone said.
From the shadows, another senior witch emerged, robes pristine despite the chaos. Her eyes were sharp, calculating. "We cannot waste time on speculation. Kael will come for us again. We need a plan - one that ensures victory, not just survival."
Lyra nodded. "Agreed. Gather every spell, every curse, every enchanted object we can muster. This forest is ours to defend, if we fight smart. No reckless displays of power, no charges into the enemy. Patience. Precision. Power."
The other witch frowned. "Patience? We've lost too many already. If we wait, the wolves will think us weak. They'll strike again and again until nothing remains."
"Better to survive than die in arrogance," Lyra replied. "Victory is meaningless if there is no coven left to claim it. Remember the old wars, the Bloodmoon Campaigns. Those who acted rashly - gone. Those who planned, who waited…they endured. They won. And so will we."
Time slipped by while silence held the air. Moving through symbols drawn in dust and shadow, Lyra tucked spells into corners where eyes don't look. Trees exhaled slowly, their roots twitching as if dreaming, syncing with the rhythm she carried in her bones. Energy pulsed under her nails, alive and restless. Words rose from moss and bark, murmuring secrets older than names.
Out there, past the tree line, something waited. The silence between branches hinted at movement - Kael's wolves moving low through shadow. Not a sound came close, yet her skin tightened like it remembered his presence: sharp, watchful, never far when night settled. Distance meant nothing to that kind of awareness.
A storm lived in his steps. Not just fur, not just fang - something wider, wilder. Power didn't follow him; it rose before him like wind.
He glanced her way. She caught his eye.
Darkness behind her eyelids pulled her thoughts into line. What counted was the fight ahead, never him. Never the beast at her side. Or that odd pull - something raw she couldn't name but felt deep in her bones.
Faint light arrived, thin and quiet, laying silver across the trees. Traps stayed out of sight under a soft cover of mist - so did magic, so did her people. Through the woods they moved, following Lyra uphill where vines hung low. Not one sound broke from them as they slipped past branches.
Not one step felt careless. Wards took shape under low voices, illusions formed without flourish. Behind every tree, a sign waited - silent, ready. Precision lived in each gesture, not rigid but shaped by years, part old script, part sudden knowing. Sounds slipped between them in a language long before now, barely loud enough to catch. Meaning stuck anyway, pulling spells from air into ground.
It was there that Lyra spotted him.
Kael.
Floating between forms, his body caught in that blurred space where fur meets skin, he watched the trees stretch out beneath him. Amber eyes - alive with something deeper than thought - swept across the undergrowth, not curious but hunting. Every shadow held a question; every silence could mean danger waiting. Magic leaves traces, even when it tries to hide.
Something tightened in Lyra's chest. Like a shadow given motion, he flowed forward - silent, sharp, each step packed with quiet force. From where she stood, his presence pressed against her, heavy and sure. A mind working fast beneath still eyes. Purpose carved into everything he did.
Warmth twitched inside her ribs, sharp and out of place. Not curiosity - closer to knowing. Almost like meeting a stranger who already knows your name. That tiny flare refused to be called anything at all.
A look lifted skyward. One breath passed before the gaze caught.
There, time shrank without warning. Not a trace remained - no spell, no reflex, just the glow in his eyes locking onto hers like heat through glass. Then silence.
Off he went, slipping into the dark like a breath that fades mid-air.
Breathing out, Lyra braced her stance. That tug remained, an ache without origin. She turned away from it, eyes narrowing on the battle ahead. Kael brought risk - no matter how intriguing he seemed. Wanting him didn't fit. Neither did wondering. Both vanished under cold sense.
Distraction was something the coven had no room for.
A hush hung heavy through the hours. Back came scouts, whispering of shifting shadows, groups on the move, places where danger might wait. Magic slipped from Lyra's hands into roots, streams, stone - silent, steady work shaping a shield across land. Each motion, each word spoken low, each mark drawn mattered more than the last.
Still, his presence clung close - a quiet pressure behind her thoughts. Each leaf that trembled, each brittle branch underfoot, even silence breaking far off - all carried his name without speaking. He remained beyond sight but never gone: patient, always moving, never lost.
Fog crept between the trees as darkness returned, turning trails into silent squares of play. Hidden among roots and shadow, witches whispered moves only they could name while creatures with sharp teeth slid through underbrush, patience stretched tight. Each footfall mattered more now, each pause weighed twice. Under moonlight thin as glass, Lyra felt power hum just below her flesh - restless, close, not quite hers to command.
Still, under the watchful eyes, below battles raging on without pause - past terror and fury - a small light flickered.
A light without a label kept burning anyway.
Later on, when the group had gathered again in the quiet of the east clearing, Lyra spoke. Not loud, not fast - her words settled like stone. A stillness ran through her tone, firm beneath the surface.
"Kael Blackmane will strike again," she said. "But this time, we will be ready. Every spell, every trap, every ounce of power we possess will be focused. We fight not just for survival, but for dominance. And when the dust settles, the forest will remember who holds the power."
Eyes moving across the group, she paused almost invisible on the ones crackling with power. That ridge - where Kael could be watching - drew nothing from her glance. Emotion? Not even a flicker got through.
Still, beneath it all, something tugged quietly.
Could it be a threat? Maybe a hex. Or perhaps - worse than either - one of those quiet, slow-building disasters that slip through the dark without sound.
It was a mystery to Lyra. She had no clue.
It started with the war. Kael Blackmane moved through it like smoke - quiet, sharp, impossible to hold. She saw him not as a foe but something older, deeper. Not just blood on blades, but bone memory waking. The fight had always been his breath, his pulse. What she felt wasn't fear. It was recognition.
Something about him moved her, without asking permission. She had no choice but to feel it.
Maybe someday he'd decide it on his own for her.