The Alpha's Fated Outcast Rise Of The Moonsinger novel Chapter 283

Clarissa

I never planned to be anyone's savior, especially not Lyla.

The pack house was unusually quiet as I made my way through the corridors. Most of the warriors were patrolling the borders, and the remaining pack members were busy preparing for what Nathan had called "the coming change." I didn't know exactly what that meant, but the gleam in his eyes sent shivers down my spine when he spoke of it.

Something wasn't right. Nathan had been acting strange for days now, and my sister—no, my step-sister—had been missing since yesterday. No one seemed concerned except my mother, Luna Vanessa, who had cornered me earlier with fear in her eyes.

"Find Lyla," she had whispered urgently. "Something's happened. I can feel it."

I had scoffed at first. Why should I care about Lyla? She was the eternal thorn in my side, the golden child, the special one. Even when our father had cast her aside, there had always been that look in his eyes when he spoke of her—a mixture of fear and pride that he'd never shown when looking at me.

But as the day wore on, a nagging feeling grew in my chest. What if something truly was wrong? What if the strangeness I noticed in Nathan connected to Lyla's disappearance?

I found myself heading toward my father's old study—a place I'd rarely been allowed to enter when he was alive. I wasn't even sure why I was drawn there, except for a half-remembered conversation I'd overheard between Nathan and Lyla about visiting it.

When I arrived, the door was slightly ajar, another oddity. My father had always kept this room locked. I pushed it open cautiously, unsure of what I might find.

The sight that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs.

The room was in shambles—papers scattered across the floor, furniture overturned, a massive dent in one wall. But what froze my blood was the figure lying motionless in the center of the chaos.

Lyla.

She was barely recognizable, her face swollen and bruised, dried blood caking her skin. For a moment, I thought she was dead.

"Lyla?" I whispered, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.

No response.

I rushed forward, dropping to my knees beside her. With trembling fingers, I pressed against her neck, searching for a pulse. It was there—faint and erratic, but there.

"What happened to you?" I murmured, though I knew she couldn't answer.

Looking around the destroyed room, the answer seemed obvious: a fight, and a brutal one at that. But against whom? And why here, in my father's private sanctuary?

My eyes caught the wall behind the desk—a collage of photos, all of Lyla at different ages. Next to them were complex diagrams and notes about Moonsingers. My father's handwriting covered much of it, obsessive and meticulous.

I felt a chill creep up my spine. All those years, I'd envied Lyla for our father's supposed favoritism, and here was evidence of his love and devotion to her mother.

A weak groan drew my attention back to Lyla. Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open.

"Lyla, can you hear me?" I asked, leaning closer.

Her lips moved slightly, forming words I couldn't hear. I bent lower, placing my ear near her mouth.

"Run," she whispered, so faintly I almost missed it. "Xander... Nathan... army coming..."

I pulled back, confusion warring with growing alarm. What was she trying to say? Who or what was Xander?

Another weak sound escaped her lips. "Trap... everyone in danger..."

Her words made little sense, but their urgency was unmistakable. Whatever had happened here went beyond our personal grievances.

"I need to get you out of here," I decided aloud.

Lyla's eyes opened just barely, unfocused and glazed with pain. For a moment, she seemed confused by my presence. "Clarissa?"

"Don't talk," I instructed. "You're badly hurt."

A bitter laugh escaped her, ending in a painful cough. "Why... help me? You hate me."

The question struck me harder than I expected. Why was I helping her? This was Lyla, the girl I'd resented since childhood, the obstacle to my father's affection, the constant reminder of my own inadequacy.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But something's wrong with Nathan. Something bigger than our petty rivalry."

The look in her eyes confirmed my suspicions.

"He's not... Nathan anymore," she managed. "Xander... using him. Army coming... destroy packs."

A chill ran down my spine. I'd sensed something off about Nathan lately, but I'd attributed it to stress or his growing obsession with power. The idea that he wasn't himself at all—that something or someone else was controlling him—was terrifying but made a twisted kind of sense.