Morning came with a thunderous knock.
Lyra barely had time to breathe before her door burst open and Kael stormed in, face tight with urgency.
"You need to get downstairs," he said. "Now."
She didn't ask questions. Her instincts had sharpened in Ravenguard and Kael's rare lack of sarcasm meant something serious was unraveling.
She threw on a jacket and followed him down the hall, heart pounding louder with every step.
The packhouse's central hall buzzed with tension. Warriors lined the edges, rigid and on edge. At the center stood Alaric, his aura fierce and commanding but what chilled her blood was the man opposite him.
Tall. Broad. With the same cold authority as Alaric, but dressed in the silver and charcoal colors of the Ironfang Pack.
Alpha Ronan.
So, this was the rival.
The one who'd been stirring discontent beyond the borders. The one who wanted to dismantle the very practice that bound her to Alaric.
The one who by rumor or intent had eyes on her.
Ronan's gaze found Lyra the second she entered, and something dark flickered in his expression. Not desire. Not respect.
Possession.
She hated the way her skin crawled under it.
"Well," Ronan drawled, voice smooth but sharp. "So this is the infamous Bloodbound."
"She has a name," Alaric snapped, stepping forward.
"And yet you've kept her locked up like a secret," Ronan said. "Strange behavior for a man so proud of his bond."
"You don't get to walk into my territory and question me."
Ronan smiled coldly. "I didn't come to question. I came to offer."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "No offers will be entertained."
"Oh, I think you'll want to hear this one."
His eyes returned to Lyra, and every muscle in Alaric's body went rigid.
"I'm calling for a public challenge," Ronan said. "For leadership of the Western border alliance."
Gasps rippled through the packhouse.
Lyra looked between them, heart hammering.
A challenge?
Alphas didn't just throw those around. It wasn't about territory, this was about dominance, about influence. If Ronan won, the packs aligned under Ravenguard would shift their allegiance. And with that, Lyra's already fragile place here would shatter.
"You're bluffing," Alaric said coldly.
Ronan shrugged. "Try me. Tomorrow, at the Hollow. Let the wolves watch. Let them see whose leadership deserves their loyalty."
"And why now?" Alaric demanded. "Why drag Lyra into this?"
"Because she represents what's broken," Ronan said bluntly. "Bloodbonds are chains. You forced her into it. I would offer her freedom."
Alaric growled, low and lethal.
"She's not yours to offer."
"Not yet."
Lyra stepped forward before she could stop herself.
"Enough," she said, voice steady. "I'm not a prize to be claimed in a pissing match."
Ronan raised an eyebrow. "Then speak, Bloodbound. Do you want to stay here? Do you want him?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Every eye turned to her.
Alaric started, unreadable. No pressure, no demand. But something in his gaze pleaded for honesty.
Lyra clenched her fists. She wasn't ready to answer that. Not now. Not while the storm churned around her.
"I want to survive," she said. "And neither of you get to decide what that looks like for me."
Ronan gave a dark chuckle. "We'll see how long your fire lasts."
And with that, he turned and walked out leaving the challenge ringing in the room like a death sentence.
Later that day, Lyra found Alaric on the balcony overlooking the western woods. His shoulders were tense, his eyes distant.
She stepped beside him, folding her arms.
"Are you going to tell me what that was?"
"A declaration of war," he said. "Dressed as a game of pride."
"Are you going to fight him?"
He didn't answer right away. "I have to. If I don't, the other packs will think I'm weak. That I've lost control over my wolves, over you."
Lyra bristled. "I'm not your weakness."
"No," he said, turning to her. "You're the reason I have to win."
His words were quiet, but they struck deep.
Because beneath the tension, beneath the pride and fury, was something else.
Something he hadn't said yet. But she could feel it.
Fear.
Not losing to Ronan.
But of losing her.
The next day came too quickly.
The Hollow was an ancient battleground, long-since abandoned but still sacred in pack law. Warriors gathered on all sides. No weapons. No interference.
This was Alpha versus Alpha. Pure. Brutal. Final.
Lyra stood with Kael at the edge of the ring, her pulse hammering.
Alaric entered first, shedding his shirt, bearing the marks of a lifetime of battle.
Ronan followed, all confidence and menace, eyes locked on Lyra like a wolf circling prey.
The signal sounded.
And the clash began.
It was raw and vicious. Flesh met flesh. Claws tore skin. Teeth gnashed. Blood stained the ground within seconds.
But Alaric held his ground.
Every time Ronan taunted, every time he struck low, Alaric rose harder. Stronger. Fueled not just by fury but by purpose.
Lyra felt it like a current between them.
When Ronan went for a dirty strike a slash aimed at Alaric's ribs while pretending surrender Lyra stepped forward, shouting, "Behind!"
Alaric spun, blocked it, and drove Ronan into the dirt with a crushing blow that left the air silent.
Then it was over.
Ronan lay broken at Alaric's feet.
The Hollow roared with howls of victory.
But Alaric didn't smile.
He turned to Lyra bloodied, bruised, but steady and simply asked:
"Did I just win… or prove him right?"