The wind threads through the trees, cold fingers slipping over bark and bone.
It moans through the bare branches, a hollow sound that should belong only to winter. But to Lyra, it carries him.
Kaelen's voice rides the gusts, low and unyielding.
Unworthy.
Unfit.
Rogue.
Each word falls heavy, as if the air itself has been shaped to cut her.
They coil inside her chest, pressing against her ribs until she can barely breathe.
The finality in them is the weight of a door slamming shut, not just on her place in the pack, but on everything she once was.
She bites the inside of her cheek until the sharp tang of iron blooms across her tongue.
The pain is small, a desperate anchor against the swell of memory. But it does nothing to quiet the echo.
Leaves skitter along the frozen ground, chasing each other like whispers too fast to catch.
The trees stand tall and bare, their branches like black veins against a pale sky.
She moves through them, her steps slow, every crunch of frost underfoot sounding too loud in the silence between the wind's words.
The forest seems endless, yet she knows she is only circling the place she cannot leave the moment she cannot outrun.
And still, the wind follows, carrying his voice, calling her what she has become.
She remembers the firelight first — golden and warm, licking at the dark.
The Alpha's voice had filled the night, deep and sure, carrying her name into the circle.
It had been more than a word then. It had been a promise, a place carved for her among her own.
Every wolf had lifted their heads, their eyes bright, and she had felt the bond thread through her like sunlight in her veins.
Now, that same name sits heavy on her tongue. She hears it in her mind, stripped bare, no honor in its sound.
It burns differently now ,not with pride, but with the weight of loss. The syllables feel sharp, cutting her from the inside whenever she thinks them.
Her chest tightens, but it is not the cold that grips her. It is the hollow place where the bond once lived, a space that feels too big, too empty.
She can almost feel the ghost of it, a faint tug that used to lead her home, now snapped, frayed ends curling in the dark.
The night around her offers no answer, only the quiet of things gone.
She wraps her arms around herself, as if she could hold in what has already been taken.
Her name still belongs to her, but without the pack, it feels like nothing at all.
The wind hits her like a living thing, fierce and unrelenting. It roars in her ears, stealing her breath before it can reach her lungs.
Bitter air slams against her face, cutting through the thin fabric clinging to her body until it feels like she's wearing nothing at all.
She raises an arm to shield her eyes, but the gusts shove her sideways, forcing her to fight for balance.
Snow whips against her skin, each flake sharpened into ice by the storm's rage.
They sting and slice, leaving her cheeks raw, her lips burning.
The ground beneath her is treacherous, slick patches hidden under layers of drifting white.
Her boots slide, toes catching on buried roots, but she does not stop. Each step feels like walking into a wall of knives, the cold driving deeper with every inch forward.
Her muscles scream, her body shivering so hard it throws her off stride. She leans into the wind, teeth clenched, every movement a battle.
The storm howls louder, as if it wants her to turn back, to vanish into the endless white.
But she grits her teeth, pushes harder, and keeps moving. The wind may tear at her, the cold may cut her, but stopping is not an option. Not tonight.
The wind howls around her, but it is not what makes her flinch. It is the voice she hears, low and certain, curling through the dark like smoke. Not memory, not truly, but close enough to hurt.
You can't survive without the pack.
The words slide under her skin, cold and sharp, cutting deeper than any frost.
She can almost see his face as he would look at her now eyes unreadable, mouth set in that firm, unyielding line.
Not cruel, not kind. Just certain. Certain that she would fail.
The thought coils tight in her chest, squeezing until her breath comes thin and fast.
The cold outside is biting, but this, this is something else. It is a hollow ache, the kind that grows in the dark and feeds on every step she takes away from the life she once knew.
Snow swirls around her feet, whispering against the frozen ground. She keeps moving, but the words stay with her, each one heavier than the last.
The storm's voice fades beneath his, until all she can hear is that quiet, merciless truth.
She grits her teeth, but it does nothing to dull the sting. The cold may claim her body, but it is his voice that will break her first.
She stops where the snow lies deepest, shoulders curling inward as if she could make herself vanish.
The wind surges around her, a wild, endless roar, tearing at her hair, dragging at her clothes.
Her hands curl into fists inside her sleeves, nails biting into her palms.
The cold seeps through anyway, a slow, steady creep that feels almost welcome. If she stays here, it will take her. Quietly. Without struggle.
Her breath comes in shallow bursts, each one a pale cloud in the dark.
She watches them drift away, fragile shapes that vanish before they can rise. It feels like losing something, piece by piece, until nothing will be left.
The silence beneath the wind is strange, heavy, as if the world is waiting for her to decide.
Snowflakes catch in her lashes, melt against the heat of her skin, then freeze again as the gusts tear past.
Her heart beats slow, too slow. The cold makes it easy to stand still, to let the fight drain from her bones.
But far off, something shifts like a faint crack, a shape moving where the white turns to shadow.
Her fists tighten harder. Stillness will kill her. Whatever waits ahead might, too. But one of them is coming for her now.
She pushes forward, each step pulled from the weight in her legs, not the strength in them.
Kaleen's voice burns in her head, each word a brand she cannot scrape away. You can't survive without the pack. It follows her through the storm, sharper than the ice cutting at her cheeks.
The wind offers no mercy. It claws at her from every side, forcing her to lean into it, to fight for every inch of ground.
Snow swirls in wild spirals, blinding her, filling the world with shifting white. Still, her feet find a rhythm slow, uneven, but hers.
Her breath rasps in her throat, warm for a heartbeat before the air steals it.
She keeps her eyes on the blur ahead, on the faint shapes of trees that refuse to come closer.
Then, through the howl of the storm, she hears it, a sound that freezes her mid-step. A howl. Low, drawn out, not like any she's heard before. It's not pack. It's not familiar.
The sound rises again, distant yet cutting through the wind as if it knows where she is. Her heart stumbles in her chest.
She doesn't know if it's calling her toward safety or toward her end.
Either way, she keeps moving.