Lena's POV
"You're sure about this?" I asked Damien as we walked down the dimly lit corridor of his mansion. My voice was steadier than I felt, but the anxiety bubbling in my chest was impossible to ignore.
"I wouldn't have called him if I wasn't," Damien replied, his tone clipped. "Marcus is the most knowledgeable historian in the pack. If anyone can explain what's happening, it's him."
The way Damien's hand hovered protectively at the small of my back should have been reassuring, but it only heightened my sense of unease. I didn't like the idea of being the center of some ancient mystery.
"So, this Marcus guy," I said, glancing at Damien, "is he going to give me a straight answer, or is this another round of cryptic werewolf riddles?"
Damien's lips quirked into a faint smile. "He's thorough, if nothing else. But don't expect him to sugarcoat things."
"Great," I muttered under my breath.
We stopped in front of a heavy oak door, its surface carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift under the flickering candlelight. Damien knocked once, and the door creaked open.
Inside, the room was lined with shelves overflowing with books, scrolls, and artifacts that looked like they belonged in a museum. At the center of it all was Marcus—a wiry man with sharp features and piercing green eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
"Alpha," Marcus said, nodding respectfully to Damien before his gaze landed on me. "And you must be Lena."
"Yeah," I said, my voice faltering slightly. "That's me."
Marcus studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if he were trying to solve a particularly challenging puzzle.
"I see it," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
"See what?" I asked, crossing my arms defensively.
"The Moonchild," Marcus said, his tone reverent. "It's unmistakable."
I shot Damien a sharp look. "The Moonchild? What is he talking about?"
Damien sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Marcus, explain it to her. Everything."
Marcus nodded and gestured for us to sit at the long table in the center of the room. As we took our seats, he pulled out an ancient scroll, its edges frayed with age.
"The Moonchild is part of a prophecy," Marcus began, unrolling the scroll carefully. "A child born under a rare alignment of the moon and stars, destined to either unite the werewolf packs or bring about their destruction."
"Wait," I said, holding up a hand. "You're saying I'm this... Moonchild?"
Marcus met my gaze, unflinching. "You fit the description perfectly. The mark on your shoulder, your lineage, even your arrival here—it all aligns with the prophecy."
"This is insane," I said, shaking my head. "I didn't ask for any of this. I'm not some chosen one in your werewolf story."
"I understand this is overwhelming," Marcus said, his tone surprisingly gentle. "But the prophecy is clear. Your presence will tip the scales, one way or another."
"What does that mean, exactly?" I asked, my voice rising. "Tip the scales how?"
"That depends on the choices you make," Marcus replied. "And the alliances you forge."
I looked at Damien, searching for any sign that he didn't believe this nonsense. But his expression was unreadable.
"Damien?" I prompted.
"He's right," Damien said finally. "The prophecy has been a part of werewolf lore for centuries. If Marcus says you're the Moonchild, then it's not something we can ignore."
I stared at him, disbelief coursing through me. "You're just going to accept this? That I'm some kind of supernatural chess piece?"
"I don't like it any more than you do," Damien said, his voice low. "But we can't afford to be naive. If Victor and the others find out, they'll come for you. And they won't stop until they get what they want."
The room felt like it was closing in on me, the weight of their words pressing down on my chest. "This can't be happening," I whispered.
"It is," Marcus said, his tone firm. "And you need to be prepared."
Before I could respond, a knock at the door interrupted us. One of Damien's pack members stepped inside, his expression tense.
"Alpha," he said, glancing nervously at me. "There's a situation."
"What kind of situation?" Damien demanded, already on his feet.
"A stranger," the man said. "He claimed he was lost, but something feels... off."
Damien's eyes narrowed. "Where is he now?"
"Outside," the man replied. "I told him to wait by the gate, but—"
A loud crash echoed through the mansion, cutting him off.
Damien didn't wait for an explanation. He was out the door in an instant, with me and Marcus close behind.
As we reached the main hall, chaos erupted. A man stood in the center of the room, his human form betraying the predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Lena Cross," he said, his voice dripping with menace. "It's an honor to finally meet you."
I froze, my mind racing. How did he know my name?
"Who are you?" Damien demanded, stepping protectively in front of me.
The man smirked, his gaze flicking to Damien. "A friend of Victor's."
Damien growled low in his throat, his body tense and ready to strike. "You made a mistake coming here."
"Did I?" the man said, his smirk widening. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like I'm exactly where I need to be."
Without warning, he lunged toward me, his speed inhuman.
"Lena!" Damien shouted, but before he could reach me, the man's hand closed around my arm, dragging me backward.
Panic surged through me as I struggled against his grip. "Let me go!"
But he was too strong, his claws digging into my skin as he pulled me closer.
"Such power," he hissed, his eyes gleaming with something akin to reverence. "You really are the Moonchild."
"Get your hands off her!" Damien roared, his transformation already taking hold.
The man's grip faltered just long enough for me to twist free, stumbling back into Damien's arms as he surged forward, tackling the intruder to the ground.
The fight was brutal, a blur of claws and teeth as Damien unleashed his full strength. But even as he fought, the man managed to slip away, his laughter echoing through the hall.
"This isn't over," he called as he disappeared into the shadows.
Damien stood, his chest heaving, blood dripping from a gash on his arm.
"Are you okay?" he asked, turning to me.
I nodded, though my hands were still shaking. "Who was that?"
"A warning," Damien said grimly.
But as I looked at the bloodstained floor where the man had stood, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than just a warning.
It was a promise.
Later that night, back in my room, I noticed something I hadn't before. A faint glow emanated from the mark on my shoulder, pulsing softly in the darkness.
And then the whisper came, so quiet I almost thought I imagined it.
"Trust no one."
My heart raced as I bolted upright, the memory of the attack still fresh in my mind. What did it mean? And who—or what—was trying to warn me?
One thing was certain: this was far from over.