The rabbit's heart stopped beating under Lyra's sharp teeth. Blood, warm and salty, filled her mouth as she crouched behind thick bushes. Her stomach growled loudly, asking for food after three days of nothing. Snap.
A twig broke somewhere close. Too close. Lyra froze, her body turning into stone.
Every muscle tightened like a bowstring ready to fire. The forest around her went silent—no birds singing, no wind moving through leaves. Even the mosquitoes stopped their buzzing. That meant danger. She dropped the dead bunny and pressed her body flat against the cold ground. Dirt and old leaves stuck to her torn clothes. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she worried others might hear it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Heavy footsteps moved through the trees.
Not human feet—wolf paws. Big ones. "I smell something," a deep voice growled. "Fresh kill." Another voice laughed, cruel and sharp. "Maybe we'll find a rogue to play with. It's been too long since we had fun." Lyra's hands shook. She knew that laugh. It belonged to Marcus from the Ironclaws Pack. He enjoyed hurting wolves who lived alone in the woods. Last month, he'd killed Jenny, a sweet old rogue who never bothered anyone. The footsteps came closer. Leaves crunched under big paws. "Split up," Marcus demanded. "Check every bush, every tree. If there's a rogue here, we'll find them."
Lyra's mind raced. Three wolves, maybe four. She could smell their strong, bitter scent now. They moved like animals, spreading out to surround their prey. She had to run. Now. Lyra rolled sideways, moving like a snake through the shrubbery. Thorns grabbed at her clothes and scratched her skin, but she didn't make a sound. Ten years of living alone had taught her how to be unnoticeable.
Ten years since everything went wrong. The memory hit her like a punch to the gut. Elara's tiny hand slipping from hers. The dark water closing over her sister's head. Her father's angry voice screaming, "Why did she die but not you?" Focus, Lyra told herself. Survive first. Feel bad later.
She crawled toward a fallen log, her haven for the past week. It was hollow inside, hidden by thick ferns. If she could reach it— "There!" Marcus roared. "I see movement!" Lyra's blood turned to ice. She jumped up and ran, her bare feet flying over rocks and roots. Behind her, wolves howled with joy. The hunt had begun. Branches whipped her face. Her lungs burned. But she didn't slow down. She couldn't.
The fallen log appeared ahead, its dark hole like a mouth waiting to swallow her. Lyra dove inside just as claws raked the air where her head had been. "Got away again," Marcus growled. "Slippery little rat." "Want us to dig her out?" another wolf asked. "No. She'll come out when she's hungry enough. They always do." Their laughter faded as they walked away, but Lyra didn't move. She stayed curled up in the rotted wood, counting her heartbeats.
One hundred. Two hundred. Five hundred.
Finally, silence returned to the trees. Lyra crawled out, her body aching everywhere. The rabbit was gone—the wolves had taken her dinner. Her stomach cramped with hunger, but she ignored it. She'd been hungry before. The sun was setting, painting the sky red like blood.
She needed to find new housing. The wolves knew about this place now. As she gathered her few belongings—a rusty knife, a torn blanket, a small bag of herbs—something glinted in the dirt. Lyra bent down and picked up a silver locket. It was old and tarnished, with strange symbols cut into its surface. She'd never seen it before. It wasn't hers. The locket felt warm in her hand, almost alive. When she touched it, pictures flashed through her mind. A river at night. A little girl screaming. Water, black as ink, pulling someone down. Lyra gasped and dropped the locket. It hit the ground with a soft sound, like a bell ringing far away. Her hands shook as she picked it up again. This time, no visions came.
Just warmth spreading up her arm, into her chest, wrapping around her heart like gentle fingers. Where did this come from? The smart thing would be to leave it behind. Strange things meant trouble, and she had enough problems already. But something made her slip the locket into her pocket. It felt... important. Like a piece of a puzzle she didn't know she was solving. Night fell fast in the deep woods. Lyra found a new hiding spot between two big rocks and tried to sleep.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Elara's face. Sweet, trusting Elara, who'd followed her big sister anywhere. "I should have protected you," Lyra whispered to the darkness. "I should have died instead." The locket grew warm against her leg. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Long, lonely, full of pain.
Other voices joined it—a whole pack singing together under the moon. Lyra had been alone for so long, she'd forgotten what it felt like to belong somewhere. To have family. To be wanted. But that was before. Now she was just a rogue, hiding and running and trying not to die. That's all she'd ever be. The screaming stopped.
New sounds floated through the night. Footsteps. Voices. Not the Ironclaws this time—different wolves, moving with purpose instead of violence. "She was here," someone said. A man's voice, deep and powerful. "I can smell her scent."
"The trail leads north," a woman answered. "Want us to follow?" "No. We wait. She'll come to us." Lyra pressed herself deeper into the rocks. Her heart started racing again. Who were these wolves? What did they want with her? The locket burned hot against her skin, so hot she almost cried out. In her mind, she heard something impossible—a child's voice, faint as a whisper. Tomorrow, sister. Tomorrow everything changes. Lyra's blood turned to ice. She knew that sound. It belonged to Elara. But Elara was dead. Had been dead for ten years. The locket glowed like a heartbeat.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then the night exploded with light as the full moon burst from behind the clouds, lighting everything in silver fire. And in that light, Lyra s
aw something that made her scream.