The Alpha's Fated Outcast: Rise Of The Moonsinger.-Chapter 283: An unexpected ally...

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..."

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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.

"We need to warn the others," I said, more to myself than to Lyla.

"Can't... trust anyone," she whispered. "Don't know... who's loyal to him."

She was right. If what she was saying was true, we could not know who might be in league with whatever Nathan—or this Xander—was planning.

I made a quick decision. "I'm taking you somewhere safe. I can call the Lycan Leader for you if you want. Can you move at all?"

Lyla attempted to sit up, her face contorting with pain. She managed to raise herself a few inches before collapsing back. "Too weak... used too much power."

I hadn't expected to carry my step-sister's broken body through the pack house, but here I was. I positioned myself beside her and slid one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees.

"This is going to hurt," I warned her.

She nodded weakly, steeling herself.

I lifted her as gently as I could, but a strangled cry still escaped her lips. She was lighter than I expected, almost fragile in my arms. It was strange seeing her this vulnerable—Lyla, who had always seemed indestructible in my eyes.

"We need to avoid the main hallways," I murmured, adjusting my grip. "Is there anything here we should take? Anything that might help explain what's happening?"

Lyla's eyes fluttered open again, more precise this time. "Letter... in Nathan's pocket. My father's letter."

I frowned. "Nathan's not here, Lyla."

"Was... before fight," she insisted. "Check... floor."

Reluctantly, I lowered her back to the ground and began searching through the debris. After a few moments, I spotted a folded piece of paper half-hidden under an overturned chair. The paper was old, the creases worn from repeated folding and unfolding.

"Is this it?" I asked, holding it up.

Lyla nodded weakly.

I tucked the letter into my pocket and returned to her side. As I lifted her again, she seemed even weaker than before, her head lolling against my shoulder.

"Stay with me," I urged her, a strange panic rising in my chest at the thought of her slipping away. "I need you to stay conscious, okay?"

"Why?" she murmured, her voice barely audible. "You... never cared before."

The words stung with truth. I hadn't cared—or at least, I'd convinced myself I didn't. It was easier to hate Lyla than admit my envy and insecurity.

"Maybe I was wrong," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty. "Or maybe I just don't want to see Nathan win, whatever game he's playing."

A ghost of a smile touched her battered lips. "Fair enough."

I paused at the study door, listening for any sounds in the corridor. Hearing nothing, I slipped out, carrying Lyla as carefully as I could. My destination was clear in my mind—the old groundskeeper's cottage at the edge of pack territory. It had been abandoned for years, forgotten by most. My father had once shown it to me, saying it could serve as a sanctuary if ever needed.

We made slow progress through the lesser-used corridors of the pack house. Twice, I had to duck into empty rooms to avoid being seen. Lyla drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally murmuring things I couldn't understand. Once, she gripped my arm with surprising strength and whispered, "Ramsey... must warn..."

Alpha Ramsey? The Lycan Leader? What did he have to do with this?

By the time we reached the back exit that would lead us toward the cottage, night had fallen. The darkness would provide cover, but it also meant navigating the forest with limited visibility.

"Almost there," I told Lyla, though I wasn't sure she could hear me.

As we stepped outside, the cool night air seemed to revive her slightly. Her eyes opened, clearer than before.

"Clarissa," she said, her voice stronger. "Thank you."

Something tightened in my chest—a knot of emotions I wasn't ready to examine. "Don't thank me yet. I don't know if you're still in danger."

"No," she insisted. "You could have left me. You didn't."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Instead, I focused on the path ahead, picking my way carefully through the trees. The cottage was about half a mile from the main pack house, hidden among a dense grove of pines.

"We need a plan," I said after a while, partly to keep Lyla conscious, partly to organize my own racing thoughts. "If what you're saying is true—if Nathan is being controlled by someone else and is planning to attack the packs—we need allies."

"Mom - Luna Vanessa," Lyla murmured. "She knows... some of it."

I nodded. "I'll go back to the pack house and tell her. She is one of the reasons I came looking for you, by the way. Who else can we trust?"

"Ramsey," she replied. "Must warn about Cassidy... wedding trap."

None of this made sense to me, but I filed the information away. Understanding could come later; survival had to come first.