Page 104 of The Onyx Covenant

“Which is?”

Her smile turns wicked. “That you get to stand alongside the extremely hunky Theron while making history. The rest? We’ll figure it out as we go. We always do.”

I laugh, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “What would I do without you?”

“Bore everyone to death with your responsible leadership, probably,” she quips, but her eyes are soft with affection. “You were born for this, Lyra. All of it.”

The crowd around us shifts suddenly, parting like water around stone as Tarek and Melian emerge from the grand Onyx Covenant building. They stand tall on the wide marble steps, their ceremonial robes gleaming with ancient sigils that catch the torchlights.

“The victors approach,” Tarek calls, his words carrying across the grounds without effort. “Let all bear witness to what the moons have ordained.”

The murmuring of the crowd grows louder as Theron approaches and takes my hand, squeezing it once before we begin walking forward. The path to the Covenant steps feels impossibly long, a gauntlet of stares—some admiring, others hostile. I can feel the unease rippling through the gathering, particularly from the Umbra side with dark expressions and clenched jaws.

“They look like they want to eat me alive,” I whisper.

“Let them try,” he murmurs back, straightening his spine.

As we approach the steps, a tremor runs through the ground—subtle at first, then strong enough to make several people stagger. Cracks appear in the stone steps, spreading like veins across the surface.

“What’s happening?” someone shouts, panic rising in the crowd.

Tarek and Melian remain unmoved, exchanging a knowing glance. “It begins,” Melian says, stepping back.

The cracks widen, and from them pour what looks like liquid shadow, pooling on the wide steps and behind them rising and taking form. A dozen figures materialize. Half-wolf, half-warrior, they tower at nearly eight feet tall with broad shoulders encased in jagged obsidian armor. Where skin should be, there’s instead a shifting surface like volcanic glass that absorbs light rather than reflects it. Their faces blend canine and human features—elongated jaws filled with gleaming teeth, pointed ears that swivel toward sounds, and eyes that burn with amber fire. Ancient runes etched in silver light pulse across their midnight skin in complex patterns, briefly illuminating veins of blue energy beneath before fading and reappearing elsewhere on their bodies.

Gasps and cries of fear erupt through the crowd. Many retreat several steps, even the most hardened warriors among them.

“The Onyx Warriors,” a woman behind me whispers, her voice trembling. “They haven’t been summoned in generations.”

The creatures arrange themselves in a semicircle behind Tarek and Melian. One steps forward, larger than the rest, its muzzle elongated into a wolf’s snout. It throws back its head and unleashes a bone-chilling howl that seems to reverberate through my very soul. A shiver rushes down my arms at the Onyx Warriors everyone fears.

The crowd falls silent.

“For centuries,” Tarek begins, his voice cutting through the silence. “The Onyx Covenant has preserved balance between our packs. Today, that balance shifts—not toward destruction, but toward unity.”

“Many of you,” Melian continues, her gaze sweeping across the crowd, “see this outcome as a threat to tradition. To the natural order.” Her eyes narrow. “You are mistaken. The natural order is not static. It evolves, adapts, strengthens.”

A figure pushes to the front of the crowd—Theron’s father, his face contorted with barely contained rage. “This is an abomination!” he shouts, pointing at me. “An Elios wolf in the Covenant? You forget whose pack built these very walls! What pack you both came from.”

One of the Onyx Warriors shifts, a low growl emanating from its shadowy form, but Melian raises a hand to stay it.

“We forget nothing, Magnus Shadowmane,” she says coolly. “Including how your leadership has brought us to the brink of civil war more times than I care to count. Perhaps what truly troubles you is not tradition but the thought of an Elios wolf having power you cannot control.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd at her bold rebuke. His face darkens dangerously, but even he seems unwilling to challenge the presence of the Onyx Warriors.

“The moons have chosen,” Tarek states, his voice rising. “And their will is clear. Approach, victors of the Harvest Ritual.”

Theron and I climb the steps, the Warriors parting to allow us passage. Up close, they are even more terrifying—ancient beyond reckoning, with eyes that seem to hold entire galaxies within them.

“For the first time in our lifetime,” Melian announces, “wolves from opposing packs have united to claim the Onyx Moonstone.”

“Our ancestors,” Tarek continues, producing two pendants from within his robes. “They created the Covenant not to divide us but to remind us of our common origins.”

He places the pendants around our necks—circular amulets of polished stone, half obsidian, half moonstone, with ancient symbols. The moment mine touches my skin, a warmth spreads through my chest, as if recognizing something in my blood.

“These will grant you access to the chambers within,” Melian explains. “Chambers only permitted for the Onyx members.”

“Let all here witness,” Tarek calls to the crowd. “Theron Shadowmane and Lyra Mooncrest now stand as the Onyx Covenant. Their word is law, their judgment binding. Those who defy them defy the will of the moons themselves.”

---