The following days in the Gray Moon Pack were marked by frenzied preparations and escalating tension. Lyra, like a general on a battlefield, coordinated every move. Her presence and unwavering confidence slowly but relentlessly began to change the pack's atmosphere. Resignation and fear gave way to cautious hope. Werewolves who, just days ago, aimlessly wandered, now worked with renewed energy, digging trenches, erecting primitive barricades of branches and stones, and even preparing torches and bonfires. They knew Lyra was right – the plague would return.
Lyra spent most of her time healing the sick. Her hands pulsed with a greenish light, and she herself felt her magical energy slowly but effectively expelling the Shadow of Oblivion from the werewolves' souls. It was exhausting, but the effects were visible. Werewolves regained consciousness, their eyes brightened, and their wolves howled softly with relief. Still, Lyra knew this was only a temporary solution. They had to destroy the source of the plague.
Kaleb observed her from a distance. His pride was still with him, like a shadow, but his eyes often rested on Lyra with a new, incomprehensible feeling. He saw her strength, her determination, her selflessness (at least regarding the pack). He saw how his pack, the very same one he had rejected for Seraphina, now clung to her, like plants to the sun. It hurt him in a way he couldn't understand. His wolf howled internally, craving her, wanting to acknowledge her dominance, her authority. But the human Kaleb fought back.
Seraphina was a shadow of her former self. Her magic was too unstable, her panic too great, for her to be of any use. She often stayed alone, away from others, her face contorted with hatred for Lyra, who so easily took everything Seraphina desired. She could not bear the thought that Lyra, the rejected Omega, now led the pack, while she, the designated Luna, was ignored.
The warriors' training under Lyra was revolutionary. She taught them how to focus their senses to detect the ethereal Shadows, and then how to use their own wolf energy to create small protective barriers or impulses that could slow down an opponent. She showed them that Shadows, though immaterial, reacted to a pure, concentrated werewolf will. Lyra, as a leader, was patient, yet demanding. Her voice, though quiet, carried an authority no one dared to question. Even Kaleb sent his warriors to train, though he himself stood aloof.
One night, just before sunrise, they felt it. A heavy, dark wave of energy washed over the valley. The ground trembled. It was the second attack. More powerful than the previous one. Lyra, standing on the barricades, her silver hair blowing in the wind, felt her heart pound harder. Her wolf roared with anticipation.
From the forest shadows emerged hordes of the Shadow of Oblivion. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands. Larger, more distorted, their shapes barely visible, as if made of darkness. They moved swiftly, their movements almost fluid.
"To arms!" Lyra cried out, her voice resonating magically, echoing throughout the pack, full of authority. The warriors, prepared, took their positions. Torches blazed brightly, casting dancing shadows on the werewolves' faces. Lyra stood at the forefront, her hands raised.
The first wave of Shadows hit the barricades. The werewolves, taught by Lyra, unleashed concentrated energy impulses that slowed the shadows, giving Lyra time to intervene. Lyra, with a roar, plunged into action. Her Primeval Magic exploded around her. From the earth, thorny vines and powerful roots shot forth, forming a living, moving barrier that entwined the shadows, crushing them and pulling them back into the earth. From the air, a violent wind rose, tossing the shadows aside, tearing apart their ethereal forms.
It was a battle of attrition. The Shadows were ubiquitous, and their numbers were overwhelming. Lyra fought with determination, but she felt her energy slowly draining. She saw some warriors losing ground, their strength waning.
Kaleb could no longer stand by. Seeing his pack members dying, his wolf took control. He roared and threw himself into the fray. He was a powerful warrior, his attacks brutal and effective, but even he struggled with the enemy's numbers. He fought side by side with others, his eyes blazing with determination.
Lyra, seeing his desperate fight, felt a strange pang. She sensed his pain, his desire to protect his pack. It was not a Mate's love, but an acknowledgment of his resolve. She intensified her magic, creating a temporary barrier around him and his warriors that gave them a moment's respite. Kaleb looked at her, shock in his eyes, then understanding and quiet gratitude.
Seraphina. Lyra noticed her. The Luna stood at the back, her magic useless, her face contorted with fear. Her panic weakened the warriors around her. Lyra, with anger, sent her a mental impulse. Fight! Or perish in the shadow of your own fear!
She watched Seraphina tremble, then, with a cry, tried to use her magic, but it was too weak. Lyra sighed. She had to do it herself.
The battle raged for hours. Lyra fought on multiple fronts at once, her magic a sword and a shield. As the sun began to rise, casting its first rays into the valley, the Shadows began to retreat. They could not stand the light. Their forms dissolved in the morning glow.
The pack had won. But the price was high. Several warriors were severely wounded, and many were exhausted to their limits. Lyra herself felt as if she had aged at least ten years. Her body trembled, and her magic was almost completely depleted.
The werewolves looked at her with respect and admiration. They had seen what she could do. They had seen that Lyra kept her word. She saved them.
Kaleb approached her slowly. His fur was torn, and his arm was bleeding. "Lyra," he said, his voice quiet. "Thank you." There was no more pride in his eyes, only exhaustion and sincere gratitude. For the first time since he had rejected her, he looked at her without attempts at dominance.
Lyra nodded, too tired to speak. Her wolf was exhausted, but satisfied. They had succeeded.
"We need to tend to the wounded," Lyra said. Her voice was hoarse. "And we need to find the source of the plague. This was just the beginning."
Kaleb nodded. "I will help you. Whatever you wish." Lyra looked at him. "Does your pride not object?" "My pride almost killed my pack," he replied, his gaze fixed on the ground. "You are right. I must listen to you."
Lyra, despite her immense fatigue, felt satisfaction. Kaleb had finally yielded. This was a symbolic moment for her. But she knew it was only one small step. The plague still existed, and she was the only one who could stop it. She needed to rest.
Too tired to walk, she sank to the ground. Kaleb immediately found a soft fur for her. His hand, uncertainly, touched her shoulder. There was no lust in that touch, only concern. Lyra closed her eyes, sinking into a deep sleep, feeling the safe proximity of the warriors who now trusted her. The battle was won, but the war had just begun.