The dawn had barely broken when the sharp clang of the iron bell echoed through the courtyard of Nightwalker Pack. Its sound was cold and metallic, a cruel reminder that the slaves must rise before the wolves of the pack even stirred.
Lyra was already awake. She had not slept at all. The floor of the cellar where she slept was damp, and the chill of the night still clung to her bones. She had curled herself into a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, silver strands of hair spilling over her face like a veil.
Her hair—her curse.
Her eyes—her condemnation.
It was those things that made her stand apart from the others. Where the pack had dark hair, earthy tones, the wild features of wolves, Lyra bore the pale silver locks of her mother and golden eyes that glowed faintly even in the dark. The whispers never ceased.
"She's cursed."
"A reminder of the whore slave her mother was."
"Not even wolf enough to shift."
The words clung to her like shackles heavier than the chains she wore as a child.
Dragging herself to her feet, Lyra made her way to the kitchens. The air smelled of ash and boiled meat. Wooden pots clattered as other slaves rushed about, hands raw and cracked.
"Late again, silver rat," one of the older women hissed, shoving a wooden bowl into Lyra's arms. Her tone dripped with contempt, though her eyes darted nervously toward the doorway—as if even speaking to Lyra might stain her.
Lyra did not respond. She had learned long ago that silence was her only shield.
Carrying the bowl, she slipped through the halls of the packhouse. The walls towered around her like a cage, carved of blackened stone, tapestries of wolves hunting beneath a blood-red moon. And everywhere she walked, whispers followed.
"Why does the Alpha keep her alive?"
"She should have been drowned at birth."
"Her mother's sins will burn us all."
Lyra kept her head bowed, golden eyes fixed on the ground. Each step was measured, careful not to draw attention. But it did not matter. She always drew attention.
At the head of the dining hall, Alpha Gideon sat. Her father.
But never her father.
His massive frame was cloaked in a pelt of black fur, his dark hair streaked with gray. His eyes were sharp, hard as flint, filled with the arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. Around him, warriors laughed and drank, the spoils of their hunts and victories sprawled across the long tables.
Lyra placed the bowl in front of him, head lowered in submission.
For a moment, silence fell. Gideon's gaze lingered on her, as if searching for something in her features. For a fleeting instant, Lyra dared to hope—hope that perhaps, in some buried corner of his heart, he might see her as his child.
But then he scoffed.
"Your presence taints the air," he muttered, dismissing her with a flick of his hand.
Laughter rippled through the hall. Warriors smirked, baring fangs that gleamed in the torchlight. Lyra's stomach twisted, but she swallowed her shame and turned to leave.
Only to feel a foot strike her ankle. She stumbled, the wooden bowl clattering to the ground, stew splattering across the stone.
Leona's laughter rang above the others.
Lyra lifted her gaze. Her sister sat draped in silk, her beauty sharp as a blade, golden hair cascading like sunlight. Golden jewelry sparkled around her neck and wrists. Leona's lips curved in a cruel smile.
"Careful, little rat," Leona purred. "You might trip and break those pretty bones of yours. And then what good would you be?"
The hall erupted with laughter again.
Heat burned Lyra's cheeks, but she did not respond. She knelt quickly, gathering the shards of the bowl, the hot stew burning her hands. The scent of blood filled the air as sharp pottery cut her skin, crimson drops staining the floor.
"Pathetic," Leona whispered, loud enough for all to hear.
Lyra's heart pounded. Shame pressed against her chest like a weight, suffocating. But worse than the laughter, worse than the whispers, was the emptiness in Gideon's eyes. He had not moved to stop it. He had not spoken in her defense.
To him, she was not a daughter.
She was a mistake.
By the time Lyra left the hall, her hands trembled, blood dripping down her fingers. She hurried back to the cellar, ignoring the jeers that followed her. She curled once more into her corner, clutching her wounded hands against her chest.
The moonlight filtered faintly through the small barred window above. It touched her hair, silver strands glowing softly, as though kissed by starlight. Her golden eyes reflected the light, shimmering faintly.
Lyra pressed her forehead to her knees, whispering softly into the darkness.
"Mother… if you can hear me… why was I born?"
The silence answered her. Only the faint drip of water echoed in the cellar.
And yet, unseen, in the shadows of that night, the chains that bound her fate shifted ever so slightly.
The world whispered around her, though she could not yet hear it.