Page 18 of The Onyx Covenant (The Lunaterra Chronicles #2)

Chapter Fourteen

LYRA

T he first thing that strikes me about the maze is how it breathes. Not metaphorically—it literally inhales and exhales, the massive thorny walls expanding and contracting in a slow, deliberate way. With each breath, tiny motes of silver-blue light drift from the black vines, hovering momentarily before dissolving into the darkness.

“Did you see that?” I whisper to Theron, pointing to where the wall just rippled.

He nods, eyes narrowed. “This place is alive.”

We’ve been walking for what feels like hours, though time seems distorted in this labyrinth. The narrow path beneath our feet has transformed from mud to something more unsettling—a mosaic of flat, dark stones inlaid with what looks disturbingly like fragments of bone. Small symbols are etched into each piece, ancient glyphs that seem to shift and change when viewed from different angles.

The rain has finally stopped, but the air remains heavy with moisture. It reminds me of the ceremonial incense used in moon priestess rituals, but darker, more primal.

“We should have found something by now,” Theron mutters, pausing at yet another junction. “A shrine, a clue—anything.”

The maze seems to mock our frustration, offering three identical paths forward. Each corridor stretches into shadow, walls glistening with moisture that catches the faint blue light from the hovering orbs. Unlike normal torchlight, these spectral globes cast no warmth, only an eerie illumination that makes shadows dance and colors fade to muted shades of blue and gray.

I close my eyes, reaching for my priestess intuition, though I’ve never fully trusted it. “This way,” I say finally, pointing to the leftmost path. “I can’t explain it, but it feels… less wrong.”

Theron doesn’t question me, just nods and marks our path with another scrap of fabric he tears from his shirt and ties to a protruding thorn.

The passage narrows as we proceed, forcing us to walk single file. Theron takes the lead, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the walls on either side. I follow close behind, trying not to think about the thorns that seem to flex and reach toward us as we pass.

“Wait,” Theron whispers suddenly, stopping so abruptly I nearly collide with his back. “Listen.”

I hold my breath, straining to hear past the subtle whispers of the maze itself. Then it comes—a distant, haunting melody floating on the damp air. Someone is singing, the voice ethereal and oddly familiar, though I can’t place it.

“What is that?” I breathe, my skin prickling with goose bumps.

“A trap,” Theron says grimly. “Has to be.”

But even as he says it, I feel drawn toward the sound. The melody reminds me of something from childhood—a lullaby my mother used to sing, something about moon blossoms and silver dreams. Without conscious decision, I slip tightly past Theron, moving toward the sound.

“Lyra, wait.” His hand catches my arm, his grip firm but gentle. “Let’s think about this.”

The music grows slightly louder, more enticing. I shake my head, trying to clear the fog that’s suddenly settled over my thoughts. “You’re right,” I admit. “But we need to find the shrines, and this is the first real sign we’ve encountered.”

“Could be leading us straight to danger,” he points out.

“Everything in this maze is dangerous,” I counter. “At least this is something different.”

He can’t argue with that logic. With a resigned sigh, he releases my arm. “I’ll go first,” he insists, moving ahead of me once more.

We follow the haunting melody around several bends, the passage gradually widening until it opens into a circular chamber, unlike anything we’ve seen so far. The walls here aren’t made of thorns but of smooth, dark stone that gleams like polished obsidian. The floor is covered in a carpet of luminescent moss that pulses with soft blue-green light in rhythm with the music.

At the chamber’s center stands a fountain—not of water, but of what appears to be liquid moonlight that’s slightly translucent, cascading over a series of black tiers into a basin below. The singing emanates from this impossible fountain, rising and falling with the flow of the water.

“Is this a shrine?” Theron asks, his voice hushed with wonder despite his earlier suspicion.

I approach cautiously, drawn by the beauty of the spectacle. “I think so, but where’s the clue?”

As if in response to my question, the liquid in the fountain ripples, its surface clearing to reveal an image—not a reflection, but a vision of another part of the maze. I lean closer, mesmerized by what I see—a huge clearing dominated by a stone circle, at its center a pedestal upon which rests a black stone that pulses with inner light.

“The Onyx Moonstone,” I breathe, recognizing it from descriptions in ancient texts.

Theron moves beside me, equally entranced by the vision. The image shifts, rippling outward from the center to show the path leading to this important location—a series of turns and landmarks that I try desperately to memorize. Left at the weeping willow, right at the stone archway, straight past the pool of shadows…

“We need to remember this,” I say urgently, still watching the vision unfold.

“No need,” Theron responds, his voice oddly flat. “I know exactly where that is.”

I turn to him, surprised. “How could you possibly?—”

The words die in my throat as I see his face. His eyes have gone completely black, reflecting the obsidian walls around us. His expression is slack, vacant, as if something else is looking out through his features.

“Theron?” I whisper, fear clutching at my heart. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t respond, just continues staring at the fountain with those unnervingly black eyes.

I reach for him, grabbing his shoulder. “Theron! Snap out of it!”

The moment my hand makes contact, a jolt of energy surges between us, not painful but powerful enough to make us both gasp. Theron staggers backward, blinking rapidly, his eyes returning to their normal gray.

“What the fuck just happened?” he growls, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“You were… gone,” I explain, still gripping his shoulder. “Your eyes went black. You said you knew where the moonstone was.”

He frowns, confusion evident in his expression. “I don’t remember that. Last thing I recall is looking into the fountain and seeing the stone circle.”

My unease deepens. “The fountain was showing us the path to the moonstone, but something happened to you when you watched it.”

We both turn back to the fountain, but the vision is gone. The moonlight water continues to flow, but it shows nothing now except its own luminescent ripples.

“I don’t like this,” Theron mutters. “The maze is playing games with us.”

Before I can respond, a chilling scream echoes through the chamber—raw, terrified, and abruptly cut short. My blood runs cold.

Theron’s head snaps up, his body instantly alert. “Which direction?”

I pivot, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. “I think… that way.” I point to a passage on the opposite side of the chamber from where we entered.

Without hesitation, we sprint across the moss-covered floor, the glowing plants leaving trails of blue light beneath our feet like spectral footprints. The new corridor is wider than the others, the walls here composed of both stone and thorns intertwined in an elaborate latticework.

We run blindly, guided only by instinct and fear for our friends. The passage twists and turns, branching occasionally, forcing quick decisions based on nothing more than gut feeling. The maze seems to respond to our urgency, the walls pulsing faster, the whispers growing louder, more insistent.

After what feels like an eternity of desperate searching, we burst into another clearing, this one vastly different from the fountain chamber. Here, the ground is covered not in moss but in pale white flowers that close at our approach, their petals folding inward like tiny fists. The air is thick with their floral perfume.

“Careful,” Theron warns, placing a protective arm in front of me. “Something’s not right.”

In the clearing’s center stands a massive willow tree, its trunk black as night, its drooping branches composed not of leaves but of thin silver chains that tinkle softly as they sway. Beneath the tree, a figure sits cross-legged on the ground, back toward us, head bowed.

I step forward despite Theron’s restraining arm.

The figure doesn’t respond or turn. As we approach cautiously, I realize it’s large enough to be a male.

“That’s—”

“Kieran,” I finish for him as we circle around to see the figure’s face.

Theron’s friend sits motionless, eyes closed, breathing so shallowly I can barely detect it. His skin has taken on an ashen quality, and thin silver lines—like the chains hanging from the willow—trace patterns across his exposed skin.

“Kieran!” Theron drops to his knees beside his friend, shaking him roughly. “Wake up!”

Kieran doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch at the contact. It’s as if he’s fallen into some deep trance or enchanted sleep.

“What happened to him?” I ask, kneeling on Kieran’s other side and checking his pulse. It’s there but slow and faint.

“I don’t know.” Theron’s voice is tight with concern. “Kieran! Come on, man, snap out of it!”

A soft laugh echoes above us, sending ice through my veins. I look up to see a figure sitting among the willow’s branches, partly concealed by the hanging chains, and I swear they were not there moments earlier.

“He can’t hear you,” the figure says, voice melodic yet unsettling. “He’s walked too deep into the dream.”

I stand slowly, trying to make out the speaker’s features. “Who are you? What did you do to him?”

The chains part as the figure leans forward, revealing a face both beautiful and terrifying. It appears female, with skin so pale it’s almost translucent, showing a network of silver veins beneath. Her eyes are completely white, without iris or pupil, and her hair flows around her like a living shadow.

“I did nothing,” she says, smiling to reveal teeth as sharp as the thorns that form the maze walls. “He came willingly, searching for something lost. The tree merely granted his desire—to see what cannot be seen, to know what cannot be known.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Theron demands, rising to his feet. “Release him. Now.”

The creature’s smile widens. “I cannot release what does not wish to be released. Your friend chose to drink from the roots of the Whisper Willow. His mind wanders pathways of possibility now.”

“The scream,” I say suddenly, remembering why we came running here in the first place. “We heard someone yell out. Was it Kieran? Or Rachel? Where is she?” I glance around.

She shrugs and smiles again. “The dark female wolf? She’s hiding somewhere close, terrified.”

“How do we help Kieran?” Theron asks, his voice slightly less hostile now that he knows the creature didn’t directly harm his friend.

The willow-woman gestures to the tree’s roots, where I now notice a small pool of silver liquid similar to what flowed in the fountain. “He drank to see. You must drink to find him and lead him back.”

“That’s not happening,” I say firmly. “We saw what that stuff did to Theron at the fountain. It’s some kind of mind control.”

The creature laughs again, the sound like glass breaking in slow motion. “Not control, little priestess. Revelation. The waters of the maze show truth—painful, beautiful, terrible truth. Some minds cannot bear it. Others…” Her white eyes fix on Theron. “Others are already touched by old magic and respond… differently.”

I glance at Theron, who stares at Kieran with conflicted emotions playing across his face. I know what he’s thinking—he won’t leave his friend here, trapped in some magical coma.

“I’ll do it,” he says finally. “I’ll drink and find him.”

“No!” I grab his arm. “We don’t know what that stuff will do to you. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” the creature says simply. “One dreamwalker must find another. Such are the rules of the Whisper Willow.”

“Then I’ll go,” I decide, surprising even myself. “You had a bad reaction to the fountain. It might be worse here.”

Theron shakes his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I’m not risking you.”

“And I’m not risking you,” I counter. “Kieran is your friend, but you’re my partner. If something happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

The creature watches our exchange with evident amusement. “Both bound by concern for the other. How… touching.” The word drips with sarcasm. “But time passes differently in the dream. While you argue, your friend walks further away.”

I stare down at Kieran again, noticing that the silver lines on his skin have spread, now covering most of his visible flesh. His breathing has grown even shallower.

“I’m doing this,” I say with finality, meeting Theron’s eyes. “I’ve had priestess training. Mental discipline. If anyone has a chance of navigating this ’dream’ without getting lost, it’s me.”

Theron holds my gaze for a long moment, his jaw clenched in frustration. Finally, he sighs. “If you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming after you both.”

“How gallant,” the creature mocks. “But it doesn’t work that way. Once entered, the dream must reach its natural conclusion.”

“And how long might that take?” I ask, suddenly wary.

The creature shrugs, an oddly human gesture from something so clearly not. “Moments. Days. Years. It depends on what your friend seeks and how desperately he clings to the illusion.”

Great. I kneel beside the small pool at the tree’s roots, the silver liquid reflecting my face in rippling distortions. It smells sweet, like honeysuckle and moonflowers, with something darker beneath.

“Just find him and bring him back,” Theron says, his hand warm on my shoulder. “Don’t get… distracted. I want you back alive.”

I nod, cupping my hands and dipping them into the pool. The liquid is cool and tingles against my skin, almost vibrating with potential. Before I can reconsider, I raise my hands to my lips and drink.

The effect is immediate and overwhelming. The world dissolves around me, reality peeling away. I’m falling, floating, flying—all at once.

I see my mother as a young woman, fierce and determined, standing before the Onyx Covenant with a proposal that would unite the packs.

I see Theron as a child, watching in horror as his father slices his sister’s throat in the village square… Flashes of the atrocity pop into my vision.

I see myself growing old, wrinkled hands still performing the moon rituals, surrounded by young priestesses who hang on my every word.

None of these are my memories or experiences, yet they feel undeniably real. I struggle to maintain my sense of purpose, repeating to myself… Find Kieran. Bring him back. Don’t get lost.

The visions shift and swirl, gradually manifesting into a new scene. I’m standing in a sunlit clearing, the air warm and fragrant with summer flowers. Before me stands a small cottage, smoke curling from its chimney, the door standing invitingly open.

This must be where Kieran’s consciousness has retreated. I approach cautiously, noting details that seem strangely specific—wind chimes made of wolf teeth hanging by the door, a garden of herbs I recognize from healing rituals.

“Kieran?” I call, stopping at the threshold. “It’s Lyra. I’ve come to bring you back.”

Laughter emanates from inside, along with the clatter of cookware and the smell of something delicious. I step through the doorway into a cozy interior, where Kieran stands at a hearth, stirring something in a pot. He turns, grinning when he sees me.

“Lyra! Perfect timing. Dinner’s almost ready.”

He looks… happy. Relaxed in a way I’ve never seen him, the perpetual tension he carries completely absent from his shoulders. But what truly stops me in my tracks is the other figure in the room, setting places at a small wooden table.

“Aria?” I whisper, shock rolling through me.

My best friend looks up, her face lighting with a smile. She’s dressed differently than I’ve ever seen her—a simple linen dress in place of her usual scout leathers, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of tightly braided.

“About time you got here,” she says warmly. “We’ve been waiting ages.”

I struggle to remember that this isn’t real, that we’re still in the maze, that this domestic scene is nothing but a dream spun from Kieran’s deepest desires.

“Kieran,” I say carefully. “This isn’t real. We’re in the maze, remember? The Harvest Ritual? You drank something from a tree called the Whisper Willow, and now you’re trapped in a dream.”

His smile doesn’t falter. “Don’t be ridiculous. The ritual ended weeks ago. We decided to stay here, away from all that pack politics nonsense.” He gestures around the cottage. “This is our home now.”

“Our home?” I repeat, looking between him and the dream version of Aria.

“Of course,” dream-Aria says, moving to stand beside Kieran, her hand finding his. “After everything that happened, did you think we’d go back to the way things were? Living apart, pretending we’re enemies because of some ancient grudge?”

My heart aches at the scene before me. I understand now what the willow-woman meant—Kieran has constructed a perfect dream where he and Aria can be together, free from the complications of pack rivalry and ritual obligations.

“It’s a beautiful dream,” I say gently. “But that’s all it is, Kieran. A dream. The real Aria is still in the maze, possibly in danger. Theron is waiting for you. We need to complete the ritual.”

His expression darkens slightly. “Why? So Theron’s father can consolidate his power and continue his crusade against anyone who opposes him? To not have a choice in which Omega I want to be with? What’s the point of it all?”

“The point is to change things,” I insist. “Together. Remember? That’s why we entered the ritual in the first place. For Theron to find evidence against the Alpha, to create a new leadership.”

Dream-Aria steps forward, her expression suddenly cold. “She’s trying to take you away from me,” she says to Kieran, her voice hardening. “She wants everything to go back to the way it was—you with your pack, me with mine, never allowed to be together.”

“That’s not true,” I protest. “Aria—the real Aria—feels something for you, too. I saw it when you both returned to the camp. But this illusion, this fantasy of a perfect life together? It’s not helping either of you.”

Kieran looks torn, glancing between dream-Aria and me. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this isn’t the reality and you’re the dream?”

It’s a fair question, one I’m not entirely sure how to answer. Then I remember something—a detail so small but so distinctly Aria that no dream could replicate it perfectly.

“When Aria gets nervous,” I say carefully, “she touches the small scar at the base of her throat—the one she got when we were kids, climbing trees near the river. She does it unconsciously, a habit she’s never been able to break.” I look pointedly at dream-Aria. “But your version doesn’t have that scar, does she? Because it’s not a detail you would know about.”

Kieran’s gaze snaps to dream-Aria’s throat, which is indeed flawlessly smooth. Doubt creeps into his expression, and the edges of the cottage seem to waver slightly, like heat rising from summer-baked stones.

“She’s lying,” dream-Aria insists, but her voice sounds different now—higher, strained, less like the friend I know.

“No,” Kieran says slowly, backing away from her. “She’s right. The real Aria has a scar… and she would never wear a dress like that. She hates anything that restricts her movement.” His eyes clear, he focuses on me with new intensity. “This isn’t real, is it? None of it.”

As he speaks the words, the cottage begins to dissolve around us, the walls melting away like wax, the dream-Aria fading into nothingness with a howl of rage that chills my blood.

“How do we get back?” Kieran asks, grabbing my arm as the ground beneath us starts to disintegrate.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I was told to find you and bring you back, but not how to actually return.”

The world continues to collapse around us, replaced by swirling silver mist that obscures everything beyond a few feet. In the distance, I hear a voice—Theron, calling my name, his tone frantic with worry.

“We need to follow that voice,” I say, pulling Kieran toward the sound. “Focus on Theron. Remember who he is to you, what he means. He’s your anchor in the real world.”

Together, we push through the mist, which grows thicker and more resistant with each step. It’s like wading through honey, every movement requiring tremendous effort. Kieran’s hand clutches mine with bruising force, as if afraid we’ll be separated in this formless void.

“Theron!” Kieran shouts. “We’re here! We’re coming back!”

The mist swirls faster, taking on a violent quality, trying to pull us in different directions. Kieran’s grip slips, and I tighten my hold desperately.

“Don’t let go!” I cry. “Whatever happens, don’t let go!”

A tremendous force yanks us apart, and I scream as Kieran’s hand is torn from mine. The mist engulfs me completely, and for a terrifying moment, I’m utterly alone in the void, panic clawing at my throat.

Then strong hands grasp my shoulders, shaking me roughly. “Lyra! Come back to me. Come back right now, damn it!”

Theron’s voice is so close now. I reach blindly toward it, and suddenly…

I gasp, my eyes flying open to find myself back in the clearing under the Whisper Willow. Theron kneels before me, his face inches from mine, eyes wild with dread and relief. Behind him, Kieran is sitting up, rubbing his head and blinking rapidly.

“You did it,” Theron breathes, pulling me against him in a fierce embrace. “Gods, I thought I’d lost you both. You went completely still, just like him, those silver lines appearing on your skin.”

I glance down at my arms, but the lines are already fading, leaving no trace of their presence.

“What happened?” Kieran asks, his voice hoarse as if from disuse. “I was… somewhere else. Somewhere perfect.”

“The willow shows what you most desire,” purrs the creature, still perched in the branches above. She looks disappointed, as if she’d hoped we wouldn’t return. “Few have the strength to recognize illusion and reject it. Fewer still can lead others out of the dream.”

I struggle to my feet, Theron’s arm supporting me as my legs tremble with exhaustion.

“We most likely heard Rachel scream. Where is she? What happened to her?”

The creature sighs, a sound like wind through dead leaves. “As I told you, she’s hiding somewhere near.” She tilts her head, considering. “The maze speaks in many voices, using memories, fears, and desires. What you heard may not have been real at all.”

“The maze was mimicking a scared female voice?” Anger flares in my chest. “Why? To lure us here?”

“Perhaps,” the creature admits with a shrug. “Or perhaps to show him”—she gestures to Kieran—“what he truly fears to lose.”

Kieran looks away, unwilling to meet my gaze. Whatever he experienced in that dream cottage with the illusion of Aria, it’s affected him deeply.

“We’ve wasted enough time here,” Theron states.

“Such confidence,” the creature mocks. “As if the maze will simply yield its secrets because you demand it.”

“Maybe not,” I say, standing straighter as strength returns to my limbs. “But we’ve already passed one of its tests. The fountain showed us where to find the moonstone. And now we’ve faced the Whisper Willow and emerged with our minds intact.”

“Two shrines found when most find none,” the creature acknowledges, sounding almost impressed despite herself. “Perhaps you will survive this labyrinth after all.”

“We’ll survive,” Theron states, his arm still protectively around my waist.

The creature smiles her terribly sharp-toothed smile. “We shall see, wolf of shadow. We shall see.”

As we turn to leave, Kieran still unsteady on his feet but determined to continue, the creature calls after us.

“Follow the chains that shimmer silver, like tears of the veiled moon. They will lead to what you seek.”

I glance back, but the willow-woman is already melting into the branches of her tree, becoming indistinguishable from the hanging chains.

“Can we trust anything she says?” Kieran mutters.

I look at the fading form of the willow-woman, her essence returning to the tree. “I’m not sure we have much choice.”

The silver chains hang motionless now, no longer swaying. In the eerie glow of the dark moon overhead, they cast thin, spidery shadows across the ground.

“Rachel,” Theron calls out, glancing around at the several entrances into the clearing we’re in with the tree. “It’s safe to come out again.” Theron snorts. “If she’s hiding, how is she meant to battle?”

I take in the several shadowed exits that branch off from our current position. The maze stretches in multiple directions, each opening a black maw of thorns and uncertainty.

“We should split up,” Theron suggests, his eyes scanning the various exits. “Cover more ground.”

“Great idea,” Kieran drawls, leaning heavily against a section of wall where the thorns are less dense. “Let’s all wander alone in the murder maze. What could possibly go wrong? And you two can’t split up for long, remember?” He points at his own manacle.

Despite the situation, I almost smile at his sarcasm.

“Just to check the entrances,” Theron clarifies, giving Kieran a hard look. “Yell if you find anything.”

We each take a different opening, peering into the darkness beyond. The entrance I choose seems to curve sharply to the left after only a few feet, making it impossible to see further without actually entering. The air from within feels colder, carrying a faint metallic scent that reminds me of old blood.

I’m about to turn back when I catch a glimpse of movement deep in the shadows—a hunched figure pressed against the far wall where the path bends.

“Rachel?” I call softly, stepping just inside the passage. “Is that you?”

The figure stiffens but doesn’t respond.

I take another cautious step. “Rachel, it’s Lyra. You’re safe now. Kieran is safe.”

As my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness, I can make her out more clearly now—knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, head bowed. She looks small, vulnerable. Nothing like the confident Umbra girl who sneered at me during training.

“Rachel, are you hurt?” I move closer, moonlight from behind me spilling just far enough to illuminate her face as she looks up.

Her face is flushed, but a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She struggles to stand, and I notice her flinch as she straightens.

As she rises, her shirt rides up slightly on one side, revealing a strip of pale skin across her waist. There, livid against her flesh, is a fresh wound—a clean slice that’s still an angry red.

I freeze on the spot, unable to stop staring at the wound, a familiarity rising through me.

Rachel notices me staring and quickly yanks her shirt down, covering the injury. Her eyes flick past me toward the main chamber.

I glance back, but from this angle, I can’t see Theron or Kieran. We’re alone.

“When did you cut yourself?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

I turn just in time to see Rachel’s face shift—vulnerability vanishing, replaced by cold hatred.

She lunges.

A dagger flashes in her hand, the blade slicing through the air—straight for my face.