Part Three: Lys – Hunger in Her Blood
Lys stood on the academy rooftop, the moonlight casting silver down her pale hair and sharpening the gold in her eyes. Below, the world buzzed with training drills and flame rites. None of it mattered.
Because he was here again.
Grim.
She inhaled.
And oh… she could smell him.
Beneath the smoke and scorched steel. That scent of ancient fire barely held together by a body too young to know its worth. It called to something older in her bones.
Something wild.
Lys was no ordinary student.
She came from the line of — werebeasts with blood forged in the deep forests of Eldmaar. Her father was their King, a creature who had cracked mountains in a duel of dominance.
And Lys?
She'd been raised on instinct.
Their kind didn't flirt. They didn't chase.
They claimed.
The moment she'd seen Grim in battle—half-broken, half-beautiful, defiant against all odds—her instincts flared so hard she nearly shifted on the spot.
Her father once told her:
"When the blood sings, child… you either tame it, or burn with it."
Lys wasn't interested in taming anything.
Not anymore.
She'd watched him train. Saw him stumble. Bleed. Rise again.
Every motion etched itself into her senses like a branded memory.
He didn't see her.
Yet.
But oh, he would.
She crouched on the edge of the rooftop, fingers sharpening into claws. Her teeth ached—not with hunger… but longing. Possession.
"You don't even know it yet," she murmured to herself. "But you're mine."
A gust of wind passed—and for the briefest moment, a flicker of flame trailed in the sky.
She growled low in her throat.
Not at Grim.
At the girl floating beside him.
The one they called Sparks.
"She'll burn out. They always do."
And when she did… Lys would be there.