The first thing Lyara noticed when she awoke was the heavy smell of dried herbs. The second was the pain in her ankle—a dull throb, wrapped tightly in linen, pulsing with each beat of her heart. The cottage was dim, lit only by the glow of the hearth fire. Its shadows danced across the stone walls, stretching long and thin. Aunt Serenya sat at the wooden table, her shoulders hunched forward as she ground herbs with steady, practiced movements.
Lyara blinked. For one dizzying moment, she thought she was still in the forest; that she would open her eyes to the gleam of fangs, the roar of the bear, the golden eyes of the wolf. Her voice came out as a croak. "It was real, wasn't it?" Serenya looked up slowly, her gaze sharp and unreadable. The firelight etched the lines of age into her face, but her eyes, those gray eyes that had always carried secrets, were clear and piercing. "You twisted your ankle," she said calmly, ignoring the question. "I bound it with comfrey. You'll need to stay off it for a while." Lyara tried to sit up, biting back a hiss of pain. "The bear… it would have killed us, but…" She stopped, words catching in her throat.
But the wolf. The enormous black wolf that had appeared out of nowhere had fought like a storm unleashed. Serenya's spoon scraped against the bowl. "The forest is dangerous, Lyara. You should never have gone." "I wasn't alone," Lyara muttered. "Elira was with me." "That doesn't make it safer." Serenya's voice sharpened. She paused, then softened. "Promise me, Lyara. Promise you won't wander there again." The weight of her tone pressed down on Lyara, but she only nodded faintly. In truth, she couldn't stop thinking about the wolf—his eyes, his howl, the strange feeling that he had been looking at her and no one else.
Elira came later that morning, her cheeks pink from the crisp air. She carried a small basket of apples and set it down beside the bed. "You're awake," she said, relief softening her voice. "How's your ankle?"
"Like fire's eating it," Lyara replied dryly, though she offered a small smile. "I'll live."
Elira smiled back, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She fidgeted, twisting her fingers in her lap. The silence stretched.
Finally, Lyara spoke. "You saw it too. The wolf." Elira froze, her gaze darting to the closed door as if someone might be listening. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't say that out loud."
"Why not? You saw it…"
"Yes," Elira hissed, "but if the others find out, they'll say it was a curse. That we've been marked. Do you want that, Lyara? Do you want whispers following us every time we step into the square?" Lyara's chest tightened. "It wasn't just a wolf, Elira. It fought the bear like… like it was protecting us. Protecting me." Her friend's face paled. She shook her head fiercely. "Don't say things like that. Forget it happened." "Forget?" Lyara's voice rose. "How can I forget the way it looked at me? Like it knew me?" Elira's lips pressed into a thin line. She looked at her friend as though she were frightened—not of the wolf, but of Lyara herself. Without another word, she stood, muttered something about checking on her father, and left. Lyara sat in silence, her mind spiraling.
At the market, whispers carried as sharply as the cold wind.
"…tracks by the river. Bigger than any wolf I've seen."
"…the blood moon draws near. It's a warning."
"…the Black Alpha. The cursed one returns."
Lyara's hand tightened on her basket as she passed. She felt the weight of glances on her back and the subtle way conversations hushed when she lingered too close. The villagers were nervous—afraid. Though no one spoke her name aloud, she could feel suspicion lingering like a shadow around her. At one stall, an elder's gaze locked onto her. His eyes narrowed, not in unkindness, but in recognition, as though he saw something in her he couldn't name. Lyara quickly turned away, her heart pounding.
That evening, Serenya finally broke the silence. "Lyara." She stood in the doorway of the small bedroom, the fire casting her silhouette long and tall. "You must keep silent about what happened in the forest. Say nothing to the others. Do you understand?" Lyara looked up from the bed, frustration boiling inside her. "You're hiding something. I can feel it." Serenya's jaw tightened, but her eyes softened. "Some truths are too heavy to carry before their time." Lyara's voice trembled. "Then when? How long am I supposed to keep living with questions that eat me alive?" For a moment, Serenya looked as if she might answer. Her lips parted, and her expression was pained. But she closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and turned away. "When the time is right."
And she left.
That night, the dream came again. Lyara stood in the forest. The silver light of the moon pooled between the trees, painting everything in shades of frost and shadow.
The black wolf emerged. His fur rippled like smoke, and his eyes burned gold.
But this time, his form blurred. Shadows shifted, bones stretched, and where the wolf had stood, now rose a tall figure, half-hidden in the dark. Broad shoulders expanded, silhouette
d against the forest backdrop.