Page 29 of Moon Fated

Carter’s enthusiasm wavered as he looked between her and our group. For a moment, I wondered if she was going to throw us out.

"So good to see you," Lyra replied, setting down a delicate tool on the table beside her. She wiped her hands on a cloth, every motion deliberate and unhurried. “Carter, thank you.” It was a dismissal, and he understood perfectly. He gave us a final nod, then bumbled down the walkway back to the office.

"Follow me." Lyra led us away from the growing beds. We wound through narrow corridors lined with shelves heavy with fungi. The air grew cooler as we left the main pathways. Lyra pushed open a wooden door that groaned softly on its hinges, revealing a small room with shelves filled with books and strange artifacts. In the center stood a sturdy desk covered with papers and jars of peculiar herbs.

"Sit." She gestured toward a pair of mismatched chairs before perching herself on the edge of the desk, those violet eyes never leaving our faces. “I smelled you before you left the office. Impressive, considering I was surrounded by dung.”

My wolf’s hackles raised, and I put a hand on her muzzle. Blake and I sat obediently, but Rowan stayed standing.

“Must’ve been a reprieve. To smell something other than shit.” Rowan put a protective hand on the back of my chair.

The corner of Lyra’s mouth lifted. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s a hobby of mine to poke alpha’s with a stick.”

Blake coughed next to me, covering a laugh.

Lyra folded her arms in front of her. “So. Please. Enlighten me as to why you decided to meet with the wicked witch.”

Rowan glanced down at me, and I reached for my backpack. “We found this.” I pulled the dagger out and unwrapped the old shirt I’d rolled it in.

Lyra’s eyes widened, the smirk leaving her face. "Ah, yes, the Relic of Binding.” Lyra’s fingers idly traced the wood grain of the desk. "A dangerous artifact, created to harness the power of blood, sacrifice, and the bonds we forge."

I held it out to her, but she shook her head. Rowan shifted beside me, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

Blake leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I thought the relics were legends.”

He stole the words right out of my mouth. All pups heard the stories. How there were objects forged that could bind souls and control fates. These tales were used to scare us into brushing our teeth, eating vegetables, and attending the full moon runs when the elders insisted on babbling for an hour before we could shift.

"Legends always have roots in truth.” Lyra’s eyes seemed to glow. "But the relics...they are both more complex and more simple than the stories suggest."

"Simple how?" I prodded, needing to understand the force that seemed to pull at the very fibers of my being.

"Simple in its need for connection," Lyra explained. "It requires a bond, willing or not, to weave its magic. Without that, it's merely metal and intent."

"And the blood, the sacrifice?" Rowan's deep voice resonated within the close walls.

"Those are the keys to unlocking its full potential," Lyra continued, her expression unreadable. "To wield it is to accept a burden—one that should not be taken lightly."

I felt the chill of realization seep into my bones. The dagger bound us, yes, but it was the intertwining of our lives, our choices, that would determine its true power. Had it already been used for blood?

I thought back to the legends. About the dark witch who was said to have created the relics in the first place. "Is the rest of the story true, then?”

Lyra's gaze flickered from me to Rowan and then to Blake before she nodded slowly. "Centuries ago, there lived a dark witch named Seraphina. She was powerful and feared, but not without her enemies." Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "To protect herself and to cement her power, she created five objects, each imbued with a fraction of her essence."

"Five?" Rowan's question echoed my own. The stories all differed in how many relics there were. Some told of a statue hidden deep in the forest or an ancient book buried in the earth.

"Few know the full extent of her legacy," Lyra replied. “The dagger is but one. There are four others, scattered across the world, lost to time and greed."

As she spoke, her hands moved with purpose and grace—a fluidity that betrayed something otherworldly beneath her human facade. She looked the part. Her clothes. Her hair held back with a bandana. It reminded me of myself, how I'd learned to blend into the human world, to hide the primal nature that lurked beneath my skin. As an EMT, I'd mastered the art of maintaining control, of keeping my wolf at bay even when every instinct screamed otherwise.

But there was something in Lyra's demeanor that didn't quite fit, a sense of belonging perpetually out of reach. We could walk among them and talk like them, but we would never truly be one of them. Our very beings were etched with the indelible mark of magic and moonlight, our souls intertwined with forces beyond the mundane.

"Seraphina's creations. They're meant to be together?" Blake asked, drawing me back to the conversation.

"Perhaps," Lyra said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Or perhaps they are meant to stay hidden. Together, they hold a power that no single being should wield. Separately, they are dangerous enough."

"Like calls to like," I murmured, the strange coolness still seeping through the fabric between my hand and the metal. The silver blade caught the light.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Lyra pushed off the desk. She glanced at the blade warily, then pushed her hands into the pockets of her faded jeans. “How did you come by this?”

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