The air in the Bloodmoon Pack territory had always hummed with a primal energy, a vibrant tapestry of wolf scent and ancient forest. For Lyra, soon to be the pack's Luna, it was home. She walked with quiet authority, her small stature belying a fierce inner strength honed by years of rigorous training. What the pack didn't know, however, was that Lyra carried a rare secret: she was a witch. Her magic, a silent inheritance from a hidden lineage, was kept carefully veiled, a skill honed in solitude. Throughout history, witches had been pushed to the shadows, their powers feared and misunderstood by many, even among supernatural kind. Lyra secretly wove subtle protections into the pack's wards and infused healing charms into their salves, her true abilities unseen. But the mantle of Luna weighed heavily on her young shoulders, a responsibility thrust upon her far too soon.
Only two winters past, a strange and terrible sickness had swept through the territory. It wasn't the typical wolf fever or hunting injury. It was something insidious, unseen. It began as a creeping malaise, a profound weariness that settled deep within the bones, whispering doubts into the minds of even the strongest. Lyra's parents, the revered Alpha, Gareth, and Luna, Elara, had been among the first to fall. They had fought it with every ounce of their strength, their shared bond a formidable shield, but even they could not withstand its strange, draining grip. Their vitality simply… faded. Their deaths were sudden, inexplicable, leaving the pack reeling and Lyra as the sole, unexpected heir. The memory of their vibrant forms wasting away left a cold dread in her heart, a mystery that gnawed at her.
This profound loss had only deepened the anxieties of Elder Silas, the pack's most traditional voice. He had watched the old Alpha and Luna succumb to a foe no claw or magic could seem to touch. Now, he frequently grumbled about the "new ways" encroaching upon their sacred customs, casting wary glances at any deviation from established norms. He valued tradition above all else, seeing any departure as a weakness, a chink in their armor against unseen threats. He believed that the unexplainable passing of Lyra's parents was a consequence of straying too far from the old ways. A low, persistent unease stirred in the forest's depths, a faint, unnatural whisper on the wind that even Lyra's senses struggled to pinpoint. It felt like something was coming, something formless and cold, lurking just beyond the edge of their understanding.