The morning sun wove its golden strands through the shutters of Aunt Serenya's cottage, casting a warm glow that danced across the weathered wooden floor. Lyara stirred gradually, the weight of her dreams still lying heavily upon her chest. Her heart raced even before her eyes fluttered open. She had encountered him again, those piercing golden eyes, that haunting voice pleading for her through a shadow-drenched forest. But today was not meant to be steeped in dread.
A sweet, intoxicating aroma wafted through the air, warm and tender. Bread, fresh from the oven, mingling seamlessly with the delicate scent of honey. A faint smile graced her lips as she pushed back the covers and padded into the kitchen. There stood Aunt Serenya, her cheeks dusted with flour, cradling a small, steaming honey cake that glimmered invitingly in the morning light.
"Happy birthday, my dove," Serenya said softly, her smile radiating warmth even as a flicker of anxiety shadowed her eyes.
Lyara's chest constricted. For a fleeting moment, waves of gratitude washed over her. Grateful for this woman who had nurtured her, who had wrapped her in love when no one else would. She embraced Serenya tightly, burying her face against her shoulder. "Thank you, Aunt. You didn't have to." "I always will," Serenya replied, pressing her lips gently to Lyara's temple. Yet as Lyara drew back, she caught something in her aunt's gaze—a fleeting glimmer of concern. Perhaps even dread.
Before she could voice her curiosity, a sudden knock at the door shattered the stillness. Mariel burst into the room, her laughter bright and infectious, dark hair cascading around her like a wild halo. In her hands, she clutched a crown woven from fresh meadow flowers, the vibrant colors dancing in the light. "For you!" she declared triumphantly, placing the floral crown atop Lyara's head with a flourish. "The birthday queen!" Trailing behind her were two others from the village, shyly presenting small gifts—a pouch of wild berries, their vivid colors bursting with sweetness, and a carved wooden trinket, each detail painstakingly etched. Laughter filled the room, rich and warm, momentarily driving away the shadows that lingered in Lyara's mind. They feasted on bread and cake, and Lyara made an earnest attempt—to smile, to laugh, to revel in the joy of the moment. Yet, even as her friends chattered, her thoughts wandered, restless. Why does today feel different? Why do I sense something lurking just beyond my grasp?
It began with a whisper of unease.
A raven alighted on the windowsill during their cheerful feast, its sleek black feathers aglow like polished obsidian. It sat motionless, its sharp eyes ablaze with an unsettling wisdom. A cold shiver traversed Lyara's spine. "Shoo!" Mariel hissed, her hand flailing dismissively, but the bird merely tilted its head, unflinching. Aunt Serenya hurriedly drew the shutters closed, her lips moving in a hushed incantation. As the day unfolded, an unsettling series of events began to unfurl. The village well ran dry without warning; the townsfolk gaped in disbelief, no water flowing forth from its depths. But by dusk, it miraculously resumed its meandering dance, flowing as though nothing had ever been amiss. Whispers rippled through the village, eyes darting furtively, trading glances thick with anxiety. When Lyara finally removed her beloved flower crown, its once-vibrant petals had wilted, curling into brittle remnants. She stared down at it, silence enveloping her like a shroud. It had been adorned on her head merely hours before. A heavy unease settled in her chest, squeezing tighter. That night, after the joyous laughter had faded and her friends had departed, Serenya lit carefully placed candles around the small dining table. Lyara sat before her honey cake, the three flickering flames dancing defiantly against the encroaching shadows. "Make a wish, dove," Serenya urged softly, her voice weighted with something profound and quiet. Lyara closed her eyes tightly. She longed for peace—for the nightmares to cease, for the breath of terror to loosen its grip. With a quick exhale, she extinguished the candles. In an instant, the room plunged into darkness, a stillness that hummed with tension. Then… Lyara gasped, clutching her chest as oppressive air thickened around her, dense and suffocating, swirling like smoke. Her head spun, and the fabric of reality tilted away from her. "Lyara!" Serenya's voice broke through, distant and muffled, fading into the abyss…
And then she was swallowed by it.
A forest, thick and cloaked in ink-black shadows, stretched endlessly before her. Wolves prowled, their eyes gleaming like ethereal beacons in the dark. She stood frozen, unable to move, paralyzed by dread. A voice rose above the ominous growls, deep and oozing with malice. "Blood calls to blood. Your life binds the Alpha's fate. One will rise. One will fall. And you, child of curse, will be the chain."
Desperation surged as she turned, her gaze locking onto the familiar golden eyes. Kaelen. She recognized him, though they had never exchanged names, yet his face bore the marks of torment, his body mangled, his roar resounding like distant thunder. "No!" Lyara cried, extending her hand towards him—but the shadows yanked her back, relentless. The sinister voice whispered again, closer, sharper: "Your birthday marks the turning. The curse is yours to bear." And then she fell—through chasms of darkness, through flames that licked at her skin, through a scream that erupted from her very soul…
When her eyes sprang open, she found herself on the cold wooden floor. Aunt Serenya knelt beside her, pale and trembling, an echo of fear etched across her features. Two elders from the village hovered nearby, their faces grave with the weight of unspoken truths. "You saw it, didn't you?" Serenya whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from Lyara's forehead with a trembling hand. Lyara's throat felt raw, words barely escaping her lips. "What… what was that? Who was that voice?"
The eldest elder, Mareth, stepped forward, his voice thick with sorrow. "It is time you understood the truth, child. On the night of your birth, a curse was woven into your bloodline. Your parents… they sought to shield you, but the wolves pursued them. Not ordinary beasts… werewolves, bound to the moon's whims. They came for you, because you are… different." Lyara's heart thundered in her chest, each beat resonating with dread and disbelief. "Different?" she breathed, scarcely able to grasp the enormity of his words. "Your blood binds you to them," Mareth declared gravely, the solemnity of his tone wrapping around her like a dark cloak. "You are the key to either their sa
lvation or their doom."