Silas's hut, though simple and humble, radiated an aura of ancient wisdom that hung almost palpably in the air. The scent of dried herbs mingled with notes of burnt wood and the dust of ancient scrolls, creating a unique composition that filled one's lungs with more than just air – with fragments of history itself. Lyra sat on a fur blanket before the smoldering hearth, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames. Silas's words echoed in her mind, stirring the memories of Aeris. The Prophecy. Primeval Magic. The Plague. It was all too vast, too heavy, to grasp in a single moment.
Silas, sitting opposite her with his eyes closed, seemed to read her thoughts. He opened them slowly, and his old eyes, the color of deep green, focused on her. "Your soul is restless, Lyra. It is natural. You are like a river that, after centuries of drought, suddenly flows again, swelling into an untamed torrent of power. You must learn to guide it, lest it overwhelms you."
"How can I do that?" she whispered, her voice still slightly hoarse. "I feel it, this power, in every cell, but it's like a wild horse I've never ridden."
"You will start with the basics," Silas replied, rising with a grace that belied his age. "Primeval Magic is a connection to the very essence of creation. Imagine you are a tree. You draw from the earth, you feed on the sun, you breathe the wind. You must become one with it all."
The first lessons were harder than Lyra could have imagined. Silas didn't teach her spells or incantations. Instead, he made her meditate for hours, sitting in the silence of the forest, trying to feel the energy around her. To feel the pulse of roots beneath the earth, the whisper of the wind in the leaves, the slow, majestic movement of the sun across the sky. For Lyra, who had spent her entire life feeling estranged, it was exhausting. Her mind, accustomed to focusing on survival, now had to learn to open.
Initially, she was frustrated. Her wolf, having been reborn with such power, was impatient, yearning for action, not stillness. "This is a waste of time!" the wolf snarled in her mind. "We are strong! We should be acting!"
"Silence!" Lyra thought, trying to calm it. "We must learn."
Silas sensed it. "Your wolf is powerful, but impulsive. You must harmonize your wolf's soul with your human mind. Remember, Lyra: strength without control is destructive."
She tried. She truly tried. Days passed, turning into weeks. Lyra spent mornings in meditation, afternoons in physical training with Silas, who, to her surprise, was remarkably agile and taught her combat techniques that far exceeded standard werewolf training. He taught her fluidity of movement, how to utilize an opponent's strength, how to strike at weak points. In the evenings, they read ancient scrolls that Silas deciphered for her, which contained the history of the Primeval Lunas and their struggles against previous plagues.
It was during these evening sessions that Lyra truly began to know Aeris. The memories became clearer, and she saw herself (as Aeris) fighting something Silas called "The Shadow of Oblivion" – an ancient plague that drained life from the earth and the souls of werewolves, leaving only emptiness in its wake. She saw Aeris not only as a formidable warrior but also as a leader who struggled to maintain pack unity. She saw her joys, her sorrows, and also a deep love for a werewolf who was not her fated mate, yet was her greatest ally and confidant. Fragments of this bond were painful for Lyra, evoking fear of being hurt again.
"Aeris also struggled with control," Silas said one evening, when Lyra, frustrated by a failed attempt to heal a withered branch, threw it down in anger. "Her power was just as wild. But she learned that true control isn't about forcing, but about guiding."
Lyra took a deep breath, trying to quell the simmering rage within her. "But I am not Aeris! I am Lyra! And I don't have her experience, her strength… her love." She almost whispered the last word, thinking of Kaleb and the pain of rejection.
"You are Lyra, reborn with the soul of Aeris," Silas corrected her. "You are two sides of the same coin. Memory is a gift, not a curse. Use it. But do not let it consume you. Your path is your own."
One morning, during meditation, Lyra felt something new. A delicate tremor beneath the earth. It wasn't an earthquake. It was something more subtle, like the beating of a sick heart. It was the plague. She felt it, far to the north, spreading like gangrene. Images of dying land and dying wolf souls filled her mind. It was terrifying.
She opened her eyes. "The plague. I feel it. It's worse than we thought." Silas nodded. "You are a Seer. A rare ability even among the Primeval Lunas. You feel the world's pain. This is a gift you must master, or it will destroy you. But also a weapon."
Over the next few weeks, Lyra began to make significant progress. Her control over earth and water became almost effortless. She could make roots move beneath the ground like serpents, and streams change their course. Her illusions became more convincing, though they still exhausted her. The biggest breakthrough was healing a young, wounded deer she found in the forest. Her magic flowed into its body, and a wound that should have killed it began to close before her eyes.
Her wolf also grew in strength. Their connection became symbiotic. In her full wolf form, Lyra was now larger and faster than most male werewolves, and her silver fur gleamed in the moonlight. Her eyes blazed with primeval power.
One day, during combat training, Silas attacked her unexpectedly, using his full power to test her skills. Lyra, relying on her wolf's instincts and her new fluidity of movement, managed to block his blows and even take him down. Silas, though old, was still a formidable werewolf. She had done it.
"Well done, Lyra. Very well done," Silas said, rising. A spark of pride lit his eyes. "You are ready for the next challenges. But your journey has only just begun."
Despite all her progress, the memories of rejection still haunted her. Sometimes, at night, she would wake up feeling a searing emptiness where the Mate Mark should have been. The image of Kaleb, choosing Seraphina, was still fresh and painful. Silas taught her that anger could be fuel, but it could not be the sole driving force. Lyra knew her mission was larger than personal revenge. She had to save everyone. But deep in her heart, a small spark of desire for justice still flickered.
One morning, Lyra awoke from a terrifying dream. She saw Kaleb, his face contorted in pain, and his pack was under attack by shadowy figures that were draining their life force. The plague. The dream was so vivid she could smell the rot and feel the fear.
"Something is happening in the Gray Moon Pack," she told Silas, her voice serious. "The plague is already there. Kaleb doesn't see it, but it's strong."
Silas nodded. "The prophecy foretold that you, the Blood Moon Luna, would be able to unite the packs. But first, you must prove your worth. You must show them what true power is. And you must face the past."
Lyra clenched her fists. Her heart pounded, fueled by a mixture of determination and a still-smoldering, old pain. Now she felt ready. Ready to face Kaleb, ready to face Seraphina, ready to face the entire pack that had rejected her. But most importantly, ready to confront the Shadow of Oblivion.
I'm coming, she thought. And I am no longer the one you rejected.