Page 16 of The Onyx Covenant (The Lunaterra Chronicles #2)

Chapter Twelve

LYRA

R ain slices through the air like daggers, pelting my fur until it hangs heavy against my skin. The storm came out of nowhere. Now, each step is a battle against the weather’s fury and the treacherous mountain path beneath our paws. The ground has turned to slick mud, threatening to send us sliding back down with every careful movement.

Theron presses forward ahead of me, his black form barely visible in the sheets of rain.

We’ve been trekking since dawn, exhausted and drenched, with no sign of our friends. The raging river tore us apart last night, and I’ve been scanning for any trace of them since we started going uphill, but the downpour has washed away any scent trails that might have guided us.

In that frozen moment, I smell the metallic scent of blood. Dread curls in my chest.

As thunder cracks overhead, splitting the sky with a blinding flash that illuminates the forest for a heartbeat, I catch sight of something that doesn’t belong—a splash of unnatural color against the browns and greens of the forest floor.

I halt, my instincts screaming caution even as curiosity drives me forward. Theron senses my change in direction and circles back, a low, questioning rumble vibrating in his chest.

The rain parts for just a moment, and I see it clearly.

A body.

Not just any body. The blue uniform of Elios clings to the lifeless form, now sodden and dark with rain and something else—blood, so much blood. I step closer, my heart hammering against my rib cage, praying to both moons that it isn’t Aria.

It’s not, but the recognition hits me hard.

Zephyr Talonblade.

One of our pack’s warriors, renowned for his speed and precision. Now, he lies broken on the forest floor, his skull caved in on one side, congealed blood matting his light brown hair. His eyes stare unseeing at the storm-darkened sky, his mouth frozen in what might have been a final scream.

I shift into my human form without conscious thought, the change rippling through me in a painful wave. Dropping to my knees beside Zephyr, a keening sound escapes my throat.

“No, no, no…” I reach out with trembling fingers, touching his face, already knowing it’s too late. His skin is cold, the spark of life long fled.

Zephyr’s Omega, Kay, is nowhere in sight. I pray she got away, that she’s still running. Because if she didn’t… I force down the panic clawing at my throat. The ritual doesn’t pause for grief. But with him gone, if she survived, it’s up to her to finish the Harvest Ritual. Alone.

Theron shifts beside me, his human form materializing. He doesn’t speak, just places a steadying hand on my shoulder as I struggle to process what I’m seeing.

The wound on Zephyr’s temple is grotesque—not a clean cut from a blade or a puncture from claws, but a massive crushing injury. Whatever hit him did so with tremendous force, shattering bone and pulping the flesh beneath.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I whisper, bile rising in my throat.

Theron kneels beside me, his eyes scanning our surroundings. “We need to keep moving, Lyra,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “I think we’re in troll territory.”

“We can’t just leave him here,” I protest, even as the rational part of my mind acknowledges the truth in Theron’s words. “He deserves a proper burial, a prayer to guide his spirit to the moons?—”

My words die as I turn and spot another crumpled form about twenty yards away, half hidden by undergrowth. I gasp. This one wears the black uniform of Umbra.

Theron follows my gaze, his body tensing beside me. He moves swiftly to the second body, and I follow on unsteady legs, dreading what we’ll find.

It’s Maddox Daruk, one of the Umbra tributes selected for the ritual. His death mirrors Zephyr’s—the same crushing head wound, the same frozen expression of terror. Theron growls low in his throat, a sound so feral and pained that it raises the hair on my arms.

His Omega isn’t anywhere either, and just like Zephyr’s, Maddox’s manacle is dead—no silver threads, no light. The moment its host dies, the magic in it snuffs out, too, like it senses the soul slipping free.

“They died fighting,” he says after a moment, gesturing to Maddox’s bloodied knuckles and the defensive wounds on his forearms. “They didn’t go easily.”

I look around more carefully now, noticing what I missed in my initial shock. Signs of a violent struggle are everywhere—broken branches, trampled underbrush, splashes of blood washed pale by the rain. This wasn’t a quick ambush; it was a battle.

“Trolls. Do you think they’re responsible?” I ask, glancing around frantically.

Thunder cracks directly overhead, making me flinch. The storm is intensifying, the sky darkening to a premature twilight, though it can’t be past midday. But in this gloom, the forest’s predators might grow bold earlier than usual.

“Could be,” Theron replies grimly, scanning the tree line. “And that’s exactly why we need to move… and fast. Trolls are territorial. If they’ve killed once today, they won’t hesitate to do it again.”

I glance back at Zephyr, my heart clenching at the ache of his parents finding out.

Theron’s gaze meets mine, grim determination in their gray depths. “Let’s go. Now.” He nods toward our packs, which we left at the edge of the small clearing when we shifted.

“I can’t just?—”

“You can and you will,” he cuts me off, his voice firm but not unkind. “Zephyr and Maddox are beyond our help. We’re not.”

The rational part of me knows he’s right, but something in me rebels at the thought of abandoning our pack mates to the mercy of scavengers and the elements.

“We’ll come back for them,” Theron promises, reading my hesitation. “Once we’ve won, once we’re safe, we’ll return with others and give them the rites they deserve. But right now, we focus on staying alive.”

A flash of lightning illuminates the clearing again, and in that stark, blue-white light, I see something that sends ice through my veins. Massive, misshapen footprints pressed into the mud—too large for any wolf or bear, with splayed toes that end in blunt, almost rectangular depressions under the trees where the rain hasn’t washed them away yet.

“Theron,” I whisper, pointing to the tracks. “Look.”

He follows my gesture, his expression hardening as he recognizes the threat.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

I don’t hesitate. The change tears through me, bones cracking and re-forming as my body contorts into the powerful frame of my wolf. The pain is sharp but brief, and then I’m on four paws, senses heightened despite the storm’s interference. Theron is in his wolf form just as quickly, and we’re off.

The wind howls amid the trees, bending trunks and sending branches crashing down around us.

We’re forced to a slow, cautious pace as we continue upward, hyperaware of every sound, every shadow. As we advance farther, more signs become clear—trees torn out by their roots rather than fallen naturally, strange circular clearings where nothing grows.

Definitely trolls.

Suddenly, a deep rumbling sound carries through the storm—not thunder, but something moving. The ground under our feet trembles with heavy footfalls.

A hulking silhouette appears between the trees ahead, at least eight feet tall and broad as a bear. The figure moves with surprising speed for its size, navigating the slick terrain.

We freeze in the shadows of the trees.

I hold my breath, willing my racing heart to quiet. The troll pauses, its huge head swinging from side to side as it scents the air. Now that it’s closer, I can make out more details—grayish-green skin like weathered stone, knotted muscles bulging, arms so long the monstrous hands nearly brush the ground. A jutting brow ridge shadowing small, deep-set eyes, a flat, almost nonexistent nose with flared nostrils, and a mouth full of blunt, rock-like teeth.

The evidence of Zephyr’s and Maddox’s shattered skulls tells me those stories were, if anything, understated.

The troll takes another step forward, and a twig snaps under its large foot. Its head swivels in our direction, those small eyes narrowing as they lock on to us. At that moment, the wind blows in our direction, bringing its repulsive scent of rot and swamp water. I gag just as the troll’s roar deafens me, vibrating in my ears and chest.

Fear drives us forward, weaving between trees frantically. The mud squelches beneath my paws, sometimes firm enough for traction, sometimes slick enough to send me sliding. Rain pelts my fur, soaking through to my skin despite the protective undercoat. Each breath pulls in the metallic tang of the storm, the mossy decay of the forest floor, and the stone-and-rot smell of troll.

Heavy footfalls behind us send tremors in the ground that I feel through the pads of my paws.

A boulder flies past, missing me by inches and crashing into a tree with enough force to splinter it. I wince and swerve away from it. Theron veers left, and I follow instinctively.

My lungs burn, and my muscles scream.

The troll gains ground, its massive fist slamming into a tree trunk just beside me. Splinters of wood sting my flank, spurring me to greater speed.

A yelp slips past my throat, panic driving me forward faster.

Theron gives a short, sharp bark, urging me on. I don’t need to be told twice. He changes direction again, heading toward what appears to be a wall of dense vegetation. As we get closer, I realize it’s not a wall at all but the edge of something—a ravine or gorge, its far side obscured by the rain and mist. A primitive rope bridge spans the gap, swaying precariously in the wind.

Fuck!

I skid to a halt at the edge, hackles rising, a growl of disbelief rumbling in my chest. Theron stops, too, looking back at me with intense eyes. He nudges me toward the bridge with his muzzle, then steps onto it himself, testing it with his weight.

The structure creaks ominously but holds. He looks back at me, ears forward, tail straight—a clear command to follow.

He takes more steps and starts moving forward, glancing back at me, grunting to follow him.

The troll’s roar behind us makes the decision for me. I step onto the first plank, feeling the entire bridge sway alarmingly under my weight. Through gaps in the wooden slats, I glimpse a mist-filled chasm, the roar of rushing water suggesting a river far below. My sensitive ears pick up the creaking of rope fibers.

Theron moves ahead. I match his pace, focusing on him. Behind us, the troll reaches the edge of the ravine. Its frustrated growl is followed by the ominous splintering of wood as it sets foot on the bridge.

The bridge sways dangerously.

I freeze, my heart about to give out.

A warning snarl rises from Theron’s throat. His pace quickens, and I follow suit, pulse hammering in my veins.

A rotted plank gives way beneath my paw, and I scream, plunging through, back legs scrabbling at empty air. A yelp of terror escapes me as I cling desperately to the remaining planks with my front paws.

Theron spins around, ears flat against his skull, eyes wide with alarm. The bridge tilts crazily as the troll advances, its weight causing the entire structure to sag dangerously. The ropes stretch and groan, ancient fibers beginning to snap one by one.

With a desperate surge of strength, I pull myself up, muscles trembling with the effort. Theron seizes the scruff of my neck in his jaws, helping haul me back onto what remains of the walkway. The bite is painful but steadying.

We scramble forward as a tremendous crack echoes across the gorge. The main support rope has snapped under the troll’s weight. The entire bridge lurches sideways, and we’re reduced to scrambling, claws scrabbling for purchase on the remaining planks as the structure begins to collapse around us.

Theron reaches the far side first, leaping to solid ground before turning back. His bark is sharp and urgent, commanding me to jump as the final planks begin to fall away beneath me.

I’m still several feet away, clinging to what’s left of the rope railings as the bridge continues to fall apart. It’s too far, but staying put means certain death. With a desperate lunge, I launch myself toward the edge, front paws extended, muscles straining.

For one heart-stopping moment, I’m suspended in the open air, nothing but mist and death below me.

Then my front paws catch the edge of the ravine, claws digging into mud and rock. I scrabble wildly, back legs kicking at nothing as I fight to pull myself up. Theron’s jaws close around my scruff again, and with a grunt of effort, he drags me the rest of the way. We collapse onto solid ground as the last of the bridge plummets into the gorge.

A furious roar echoes across the chasm. The troll is clinging to the opposite cliff face, its body too heavy for the bridge but strong enough to save itself from the fall.

I struggle to my feet, sides heaving with each desperate breath. Theron rises beside me, nudging me with his muzzle—a wordless command to keep moving. His growl is low and urgent. He turns and bolts into the forest, and I follow, rain beating against us.

We run for what feels like hours. Only when we’ve put miles between us and the ravine do we finally slow, both of us heaving with exertion. We’ve climbed higher, following a narrow game trail that winds through increasingly rocky terrain. The trees are thinning, and through gaps in the foliage, I catch glimpses of our destination—the twin spires of the Darkbone Peaks, with the valley nestled between them.

Theron stops in a small clearing, shaking his black fur to dislodge some of the water. I follow suit, though it does little good in the continuing downpour. He tilts his head, eyes questioning, and I understand without words. We’re relatively safe now, at least from the trolls. We can rest, if briefly.

I sink onto my haunches, grateful for the break. My entire body aches, muscles pushed beyond their limits, the pain in my shoulder from the bridge rescue a persistent throb. But beneath the physical discomfort lies a deeper wound—the image of Zephyr’s broken body, the knowledge that the ritual has already claimed lives.

How many more will die before this is over?

Theron moves closer, his big black form settling beside me, offering warmth and silent comfort. I allow myself to lean against him, drawing strength from his solid presence.

After a few minutes, he nudges me gently with his muzzle, indicating we should continue. I rise reluctantly, knowing he’s right. We’re close.

Ahead, the valley comes into clearer view with each step. From this vantage point, I can see that it’s enclosed by a lofty wall of dense greenery—some kind of natural barrier. In the center, barely visible at this distance, stands a pair of towering metal gates.

And gathered before those gates are figures—other participants who have survived the journey. My heart leaps at the sight. Aria has to be among them. Orion? Have our friends made it after all?

We shift back to human form beneath the last stand of trees, our packs still on our backs.

“Well,” Theron says, dragging his wet clothes out and getting dressed. “At least we’re somewhat decent.”

I quickly do the same. Glancing down at myself, I have to suppress a hysterical laugh. My clothes are clinging to me.

“Very decent,” I agree dryly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m sure the Covenant will be impressed with our formal attire.”

Theron’s gaze lingers on my chest for a moment.

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I resist the urge to squirm under his attention.

“See something interesting?” I ask with forced casualness, arching an eyebrow at him.

His gaze meets mine, unashamed and intense. “Something beautiful,” he admits. “Even soaking wet and nearly eaten by trolls, you’re the most captivating thing I’ve ever seen.”

That was too close. “I’ve never seen trolls before,” I breathe, still trying to catch up to what just happened.

He steps in close, sliding a hand beneath my chin and gently tipping my face toward his.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is low, rough with emotion. “The troll… the bodies… it’s fucking gut-wrenching to lose people. I’ve seen too much of it.” His thumb brushes over my jaw, slower than it needs to be. “But I couldn’t take it if I lost you.”

The world around us is chaos, but for a breath, all I can feel is him—steady, grounding, protective.

Then a shout comes from the group across the open field, and the moment shatters. We have to move. But his touch lingers like a promise.

I shoulder my pack. Theron does the same, and we begin the long trek toward the gates.

“The trolls usually stay higher in the mountains,” Theron replies, running a hand through his wet hair. “The storm might have driven them down.”

Then we walk mostly in silence, the rain slowing, thankfully.

As we draw closer, I scan the figures waiting at the gates as more emerge from the tent set up near the wall.

Wait…

“I can’t see Aria,” I whisper, my voice hitching. My pulse quickens, the momentary relief crumbling into fresh fear.

Theron squints, his jaw tightening as he surveys the small group. “I can’t see Kieran either,” he murmurs, concern evident in his tone. “Maybe they’re in that tent near the wall.”

My stomach twists into a knot, hoping he’s right. After everything we’ve endured—the storm, the trolls, the treacherous bridge—this new uncertainty is almost too much to bear.

“We need to hurry,” I say, already quickening my pace, mud splashing beneath my boots as I half run, half slide down the remaining slope.

Theron matches my stride. The gates remain firmly closed, offering no answers, no welcome. Just cold metal standing between us and safety—or whatever lies beyond.

My mind threatens to spiral with each step closer. The image of two opponents’ shattered skulls flashes unbidden in my thoughts, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

The surviving participants turn to watch our approach, but right now, all I can think about is Aria.