—Lyra's POV—
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The scent of smoke drifted to me before dawn.
It's faint, carried low on the wind, threading between the trees like a warning too quiet to scream. At first, I think I imagined it. But when I step outside the den, the air confirms what my instincts already knew.
Someone lit a fire nearby.
And it wasn't me.
---
My den lies quiet behind me, tucked beneath the frost-riddled roots of the old pine that shelters me like brittle ribs. I press my palm briefly to my belly before I leave—one small reassurance, one silent promise.
Then I vanish into the woods.
The snow crunches soft underfoot, crusted from the cold but not frozen enough to mask my tracks. I move quickly, following the scent, drawing my cloak tighter around my shoulders. The cold doesn't bite like it used to. Maybe I've grown numb. Or maybe I'm changing.
I don't know which frightens me more.
---
The smoke trail leads to a clearing I know well—a place I once used to gather herbs before the snow claimed the ground. It's empty now. Just scorched ash, charred logs, and a half-burned root still curling upward like a hand reaching out for help too late.
No warmth lingers. Whoever made the fire is gone.
But they weren't just passing through.
They knew what they were doing.
No footprints. No scent trail. Just the remains of a carefully controlled burn and the feeling that I've been watched for longer than I realized.
---
I crouch beside the blackened pit, fingers ghosting the embers.
Still warm.
Not old enough to forget.
---
By the time I return to the den, dusk is draping itself over the trees like bruised velvet. I should feel comfort, stepping into the quiet dark. But there's a tension in my chest—tight and coiled, like a string pulled too taut. Something is coming. I can feel it in my blood.
And I'm no longer sure it's the cold that makes me tremble.
---
That night, I dream of fire.
Not the gentle kind that warms.
The kind that devours.
It roars around me, trees cracking like bones, ash falling like snow. I see the pack gathered in a ring, their eyes glowing with hate and pity. Lucian stands at the center, bare-chested, blood on his hands.
"You brought this on yourself," he says.
And then the flames open like jaws.
I jolt awake.
Sweat slicks my skin. My breath fogs the air. My hand flies to my belly—
A kick.
Not a flutter.
Strong. Defiant.
My child is awake, and I swear it knows.
It knows I am not safe.
---
I don't sleep after that.
Instead, I feed the fire with dry bark and bits of pine resin, coaxing it to life. The light flickers against the den's walls, casting long shadows that dance like ghosts.
I speak into the flickering dark.
"You don't have to be afraid," I whisper, mostly for myself. "We'll survive this. We already are."
---
The next morning, I go hunting.
Not for food.
For answers.
I check the snare lines first. One is triggered—no catch. The other has a rabbit, neck broken clean. I whisper a quick apology before taking it. Life is cruel here. But I'm learning how to move with it, not against it.
The old Lyra would've cried the first time she killed.
This Lyra carves meat with a bone knife and doesn't look away.
---
I climb the ridge, to the place I once buried my keepsakes—scraps of a life I had to let go of. The necklace is still there, coiled in the hollow beneath the stones. Lucian's broken fang hangs heavy against the leather, stained with old memories.
I don't wear it.
But I keep it.
Not as a reminder of love.
As a symbol of everything I've survived.
---
That evening, I feel it again.
A shift in the air. A presence pressing against the edges of my world.
I freeze at the den's entrance, eyes narrowing.
There. At the tree line.
A figure.
Tall. Cloaked. Still as a statue.
My heart slams against my ribs. My hand curls around the hilt of my bone blade. I don't move. Neither does he.
The shadows obscure his face. The firelight doesn't reach him. But something in my soul rises—sharp and wild and certain.
Varyn.
The name brushes against my thoughts like wind through pine needles. I knew no one of the sort, but the name resonated within me.
He says nothing. Doesn't approach.
But I feel his gaze. Heavy. Knowing. As if he sees all the versions of me—before and after, broken and rebuilt—and still doesn't turn away.
---
A thousand questions rise to my tongue.
"Who is he?"
"Why is he here?"
"Why do I feel like he's always been watching?"
But I don't speak.
And neither does he.
After a moment, he turns and walks into the trees, fading like smoke.
---
I don't follow.
But I do stand there, long after he's gone, listening to the quiet he left behind.
Not silence.
Just… stillness.
As if the forest is waiting. As if I am waiting.
But for what—I don't know.
---
When I finally lie down, the baby kicks again—twice, sharp and clear.
I smile through the ache.
"You felt him too, didn't you?" I murmur.
No answer. Just warmth beneath my palm.
Just proof that I am not alone.
---
I wake the next morning to find a rabbit hanging from the pine root above my den—freshly killed. No snares. No bite marks. Just a clean neck break and a sprig of sage tied to its back leg.
A gift.
Or a warning.
I take it inside anyway.
---
The days that follow twist together like vines—quiet, tense, sharp with the feeling of being watched.
Sometimes, I catch glimpses of movement through the trees. A flicker of dark cloak. A rustle where no animal moves. Once, I find wolf tracks near the stream—but they're larger than any I've seen before.
Not pack.
Not familiar.
But somehow… known.
---
Each night, the fire burns lower.
Each night, I speak less.
But each day, I move with more purpose.
I train. I sharpen. I change.
I string new traps with dried sinew. I craft a second knife from obsidian I find near the stream. I smear ash across my cheeks and practice moving like a shadow.
Because I know now—
Survival is not enough.
Not anymore.
---
One night, I stare into the fire and speak aloud—not to the child this time, but to the air. To the one I know is listening.
"You're watching. I feel it."
The flames crackle.
"But if you're waiting for me to break—"
I lean forward, voice low and fierce.
"You'll be waiting forever."
---
The smoke rises.
The snow deepens.
And the fire inside me refuses to die.
Because I am no longer the girl Lucian rejected.
I am no longer prey.
---
I am the storm in the pines.
And one day…
They will all hear me howl.
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