Chapter 4
Lyra’s pov
The moonlight slices through the infirmary window in thin silver bars, striping the floor like prison bars.
I lie still on the narrow cot, staring up at the ceiling beams, trying not to listen to the wolves howling somewhere out in the forest. Their cries roll through the night like warning bells, long and low and impossible to ignore.
Sleep won’t come. Not because of the dull throb in my wrist or the soreness stitched through every muscle, but because something inside me won’t stop moving.
It feels like… pacing. Like something restless trapped under my skin, waiting.
I shift under the thin blanket and glance across the room. Just the dresser. The wooden tray. Jars of herbs. Nothing out of place—except…
My gaze snags on something half-hidden behind a stack of folded cloths. Seraphina’s journal
I sit up before I’ve even decided to. The air is cool against my bare feet as I cross the floor. When I touch it, the leather feels soft and worn, like it’s been held a hundred times.
The edges are frayed, the corners dark with age. Faded symbols are carved into the spine…symbols I don’t understand, but somehow recognize anyway.
A shiver ripples down my back.
I bring it to bed, heart pounding in my throat, and open to the first page.
And my breath stops.
‘Seraphina Solas. Bloodmoon Pack. Year 1998.’
The name punches through me like lightning. Not mine. But it feels like it should be. Like I’ve known it all my life.
I turn the page, fingers trembling.
‘If you’re reading this, then fate found a way.’
The words pull me deeper. It isn’t just a journal…it’s a diary. A confession. And it’s intimate in a way that makes me feel like I’m eavesdropping on someone’s soul.
Seraphina writes about being brought into the pack, about wolves who never trusted her. About falling in love with Draven…slowly, awkwardly, completely. I see his name written over and over, pressed into the page like she couldn’t help herself. She writes about him kissing her in the woods, whispering promises against her throat.
My chest aches. I don’t know why.
But the pages turn darker.
‘The Elders think I’m too curious. They don’t like that I ask questions. Something isn’t right. Draven’s distracted. Ronan’s cold.’
I swallow hard.
‘I heard them talking last night. Ronan and an Elder. Something about bloodlines. About power. About me.’
‘If anything happens to me… someone needs to know the truth.’
My grip tightens on the leather. The writing grows messy, frantic. Seraphina’s fear bleeds off the page. And then—
Something happens.
The words aren’t just words anymore. They start becoming pictures.
Flashes. Feelings that don’t belong to me….but feel like they do.
I see myself…no, her, in a field of wildflowers, bare feet, white dress fluttering. Draven walks toward me…her, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them, his hands trembling as he cups her face.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.
“You never will,” she answers.
The scene twists. Screams. Flames. The world burning as Seraphina runs barefoot through the trees, blood streaking her hands.
A voice hisses from the dark: ‘He was supposed to choose me.’
Then another: ‘You don’t belong here, Seraphina.’
I gasp and slam the book shut. My hands are shaking, my heart crashing against my ribs like it wants out.
These aren’t my memories. But they’re inside me anyway.
I stumble to the washbasin, splash cold water on my face. Grip the table until my knuckles go white.
‘What the hell is happening to me?’
A knock at the door jolts me. I whirl around as Mira slips in, silent as shadow. Her eyes drop to the journal in my lap.
She doesn’t look surprised.
“You read it,” she says softly.
My throat works. “Who was she?” My voice shakes. “Why do I feel like I… know her?”
Mira crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed. Her gaze is warm, but weighted with something old and heavy…grief, maybe. Or fear.
“Seraphina was many things,” she murmurs. “Brave. Kind. Too bright for this world. She was the Luna we needed. But she died… and the truth was buried with her.”
“I saw her memories.” My voice cracks. “I saw Draven loving her. I saw fire. I saw her run.”
Mira brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead, like I’m a child again. “You need to be careful, Lyra. Those pages weren’t meant to be found. And some people will do anything to keep them buried.”
“The Elders?” I whisper.
She nods. “Especially them.”
Another’s POV
Far from the infirmary, in the ancient meeting hollow of stone and shadows, the Elders gathered.
A fire crackled in the center. The air smelled of iron, herbs, and secrets.
Elder Thorne stood, hunched but sharp-eyed. He tapped his cane once, twice, the sound echoing.
“She’s awakened the journal,” he said. “The memories are returning.”
A female Elder…Elandra—scowled. “Then we must act. Before she remembers everything.”
Another Elder, cloaked in black, added, “If she shifts and bonds with the Alpha… the old blood will rise again. And so will the truth.”
“She’s not Seraphina,” Elandra snapped.
“No,” Thorne agreed. “She’s something else. A vessel. A bridge. And that makes her dangerous.”
They all fell silent as the wind howled outside the chamber.
Finally, Thorne spoke again, voice low.
“If the prophecy is right… she is the wolf who walks across time.”
“Then we kill her before the moon aligns,” Elandra said coldly.
Back to Lyra's POV
I can’t sit still after Mira leaves. I pace the small room like I’m the one trapped inside my own ribs. Every blink brings another flash. White roses. A dagger glinting in moonlight. Betrayal in Ronan’s eyes.
I need answers. Draven has them…I know it in my bones. And if I don’t get to him soon, I’m going to drown in memories that aren’t mine.
I reach for the door...and freeze.
A prickle crawls up my arm.
Slowly, I tug up the bandage on my left wrist.
There, just beneath my skin, a faint silver mark glows....thin and curling like the runes in Seraphina’s journal.
My breath stutters. It wasn’t there before.
But it is now.
And it’s alive