The Wellspring of Shadows

Ashwood lay behind them — a broken crown of stone and sorrow.

Ahead stretched the world unknown.

Lyra rode at the head of a small, handpicked warband.

Thirty wolves.

Thirty lives she carried like blades across her back.

The road to the Forsaken Wellspring was treacherous.

Old magic still clung to the bones of the world here.

Maps were useless.

Landmarks shifted.

The trees whispered lies.

But Lyra had something better than a map.

She had the shard.

And it was singing.

Pulling her onward.

Toward destiny.

Toward damnation.

Three nights before they left, she'd found the old scroll buried in the Warden's Hall at Grey Hollow.

Wrapped in cracked leather, written in a dead tongue only the Mourning King's whispers could untangle.

A path.

A promise.

A curse.

Varra had tried to stop her.

"You chase ghosts," the old Huntmother warned.

"Better to fortify Ashwood. Let the Court come to us."

But Lyra knew better.

Waiting was death.

Only by cutting the rot from its roots could she save her Pack.

And if the cost was her soul?

So be it.

The first obstacle was the Hollow Wood — known among the Packs as the Forest of Bones.

Once a thriving forest, now a place where even the crows refused to fly.

It was said the Mourning King had poisoned the land here during his last war — spilling the Wellspring's magic like blood across the roots.

The trees were skeletal, their branches clawing the sky like broken fingers.

Fog clung low to the ground, thick as soup, swallowing sound and scent.

Even the moonlight seemed to dim here.

Kaelen Frostjaw rode beside her, his massive axe slung across his back.

He did not speak unless spoken to — a silent guardian.

But Lyra could feel his unease.

Everyone could.

Something moved in the mists.

Shapes.

Shadows.

The first attack came at dawn.

Figures melted from the fog — tall, gaunt things with hollow eyes and mouths sewn shut with golden thread.

They moved silently, striking from the blind spots, vanishing before a blade could find them.

Wraithborn.

Ashfang warriors died screaming, their souls sucked from their bodies, leaving behind only withered husks.

Lyra fought like a demon.

The shard flared in her chest, spilling forbidden power into her veins.

She tore the Wraithborn apart with fang and fury.

But every time she called on the shard, she felt a piece of herself slip away.

The battle raged for hours, but they emerged victorious — if victory could be called surviving.

Seventeen wolves left.

They burned the corpses.

They left no grave markers.

There was no time.

That night, as they camped beneath a dead oak, Lyra sat alone by the fire.

The shard pulsed against her ribcage, hot and restless.

Visions flickered behind her eyes — of a black pool hidden beneath shattered earth, of whispers and weeping and the weight of endless years.

The Forsaken Wellspring waited.

And it was hungry.

Kaelen approached, dropping heavily to the ground beside her.

"You should rest," he said bluntly.

"I can't," she replied.

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Kaelen spoke.

"In Ashfang, we have a story," he said.

"Of a wolf who chased the sun into the sea. When he caught it, it burned him to ash. All he wanted… was to bring light to his pack."

Lyra stared into the flames.

"I'm not chasing light," she said.

"I'm chasing the thing that kills it."

Kaelen grunted — approval, perhaps, or resignation.

Two nights later, they reached the edge of the Wellspring's domain.

And found the gates barred.

Ancient runes marked the stones.

Words in the Mourning King's tongue.

A barrier, meant to keep out the unworthy.

Varra read them aloud, her voice trembling:

"Only those who wear the Mourner's Crown may pass."

Kaelen looked at Lyra, waiting.

The warband shifted nervously.

Slowly, Lyra reached into her cloak and drew out the broken circlet of the Mourning King — a relic stolen from Grey Hollow's ruins.

A simple thing of bone and black iron.

It pulsed in her hand, alive with malevolent hunger.

Without hesitation, she placed it on her brow.

Agony lanced through her.

The world tilted.

She saw herself reflected in a pool of black water — but not herself.

Something older.

Something wrong.

Fangs longer than any wolf's.

Eyes like twin abysses.

A crown of sorrow and ash.

She tore herself free with a gasp.

The gates creaked open, groaning like a dying beast.

Beyond lay the Wellspring.

It was a crater, vast and deep, rimmed by broken spires and dead trees.

At its center, a pool of water blacker than midnight.

And rising from it — a twisted monument of bone and shadow.

The Mourning King's true tomb.

Lyra stepped forward.

The shard inside her vibrated wildly, screaming for release.

From the edge of her vision, she saw Kaelen stiffen.

His nostrils flared.

Too late, she realized the trap.

The ground exploded.

From the bones rose figures — dozens, maybe hundreds.

Pale and eyeless, armed with rusted blades and hatred.

Wellspring Guardians.

They had been waiting.

The Pack rallied around Lyra without hesitation.

Blades clashed.

Magic howled.

The night became a blur of death and blood.

Lyra fought her way to the heart of the crater, every step a battle.

The Mourning King's whispers deafened her.

Take it.

Claim it.

Become whole.

She reached the monument.

At its base, embedded in black stone, was a blade.

Not made by mortal hands.

The Mourning Blade.

Forged from sorrow itself.

She knew instinctively: if she pulled it free, she would have power beyond imagining.

Enough to shatter the Hollow Court.

Enough to save Ashwood.

But also enough to lose herself forever.

Behind her, Kaelen fought like a berserker, buying her time.

The warband dwindled.

One by one.

Varra screamed her name — a desperate, furious warning.

But Lyra barely heard.

Her hand closed around the hilt.

The blade was cold as death.

And then — a voice, not the Mourning King's.

Familiar.

Soft.

Her mother's voice.

"Lyra… please…"

She froze.

Tears blurred her vision.

Slowly, she let go.

She would not damn herself.

Not yet.

With a cry that shook the stars, Lyra unleashed the shard's power — not to claim the blade, but to destroy the monument itself.

The crater shook.

The black pool boiled.

The Guardians screamed as they crumbled into ash.

When the dust cleared, only Lyra remained standing.

Her body broken.

Her soul bleeding.

But her will unbroken.

She staggered back to the survivors — only five left.

Kaelen.

Varra.

Three others whose names she swore she would carve into the stones of Ashwood.

The Wellspring was dead.

The Mourning King's tether weakened.

But the war was far from over.

As they turned back toward Ashwood, Lyra knew:

The Hollow Court would not forgive this.

They would come, in numbers beyond counting.

And when they did…

She would be ready.

Or she would die standing.

Under the Savage Moon.