Chapter 5
934 Words
Lyra laid on the rough floorboards that night and thought about how her life had changed the day her father was laid to rest.
The pack that once smiled at her now turned their faces away. Warriors who once patted her head with pride now looked at her with narrowed eyes. Mothers who once let their children play with her now pulled them back with hushed warnings.
Her life became a slow unraveling.
At home, she lived worse than the lowest omega. Tasks were piled on her shoulders, scrubbing floors until her hands bled, fetching water in the dead of night, preparing meals she was rarely allowed to eat. The house that had once been filled with her mother’s songs and her father’s laughter was now a place of harsh commands and silence.
“Do it again,” one of the pack women snapped once as Lyra laid a tray on the table. “The Alpha’s daughter should at least know how to serve without spilling.”
Her face burned with shame, but she obeyed.
School was no better.
On her first day back after her father’s funeral, whispers followed her like shadows.
“She’s the reason both of them are gone.”
“Cursed blood.”
“Stay away before she brings it on you too.”
When she tried to sit in class, books were pushed from her desk. Ink was spilled across her notes. Once, a boy with a cruel grin leaned close and hissed, “Does death follow you, Lyra? Maybe you should warn us before you sit near.”
She clenched her fists under the desk. Her wolf was silent within her, offering no comfort, no rage, no strength.
Her only escape was silence. She learned to keep her head down, to let the words strike her without reply. But silence only made them bolder.
Even in the community, where once she was greeted with smiles, she now felt the weight of eyes that never looked with kindness. Vendors would hand her the worst fruit at the market. Neighbors shut their doors when she passed. Children dared each other to run close to her and shout, “Cursed wolf,” before darting away with laughter.
Everywhere she turned, there was no place she belonged.
Still, Lyra endured. Each morning she woke to the same weight pressing on her chest, but she pushed through the day. She cleaned. She studied. She survived.
But survival was not enough for those who hated her. They wanted her broken.
One evening, as she returned from the river with water jars balanced in her arms, she found three older boys waiting on the path. Their leader, Rowan, the son of a warrior, sneered at her.
“Look who it is. The little curse.”
Lyra kept walking, her gaze fixed on the ground.
“Don’t ignore me,” Rowan growled, stepping into her path. He shoved one jar from her arm, water spilling across the dirt. “That was an accident, wasn’t it? Just like your mother. Just like your father.”
The words cut deep, sharper than claws.
She trembled, but before she could speak, another boy added with a laugh, “Maybe the goddess keeps her alive just so she can ruin more lives.”
They shoved her, tripped her, made her fall until the water soaked her clothes and mud clung to her skin. She wanted to cry, to scream, but she bit it back. If they wanted to see her break, she would not give them that.
Rowan crouched beside her, his grin cruel. “One day, Lyra, you’ll bring death to the rest of us. And when that day comes, don’t think anyone will stand in your way.”
That night, as she lay bruised and aching, Lyra stared at the ceiling of the small room she now slept in. A cold certainty settled in her chest.
They would never forgive her.
They would never see her as anything but the girl who carried death in her shadow.
And each day, their hatred grew bolder.
She did not yet know what new cruelty tomorrow would bring. But tomorrow was already waiting.
Sleep no longer came easily. When she closed her eyes, she dreamed of fire and of the shadows it left behind. Of her mother’s scream as the flames rose. Of her father’s silence as the pack turned their backs. She would jolt awake with the taste of ash in her mouth, her body slick with sweat.
The nights stretched long and restless. The bunk that had once been hers was gone, replaced by the crate and the iron collar. She slept on the floor beside it, though sleep was too kind a word. Mostly she stared into the dark, counting the cracks in the ceiling until the bell clanged for morning.
Her thoughts circled the same truth. No matter how hard she worked, no matter how silent she stayed, no matter how much she endured, her life was no longer her own. The pack wanted her guilty. Miriam wanted her broken. And soon, a stranger from the Shadow Council would arrive to judge her.
She wondered if he would see her as she was, or only as the story they had written around her name. She wondered if he would see her at all.
Somewhere outside, a crow called again, its cry sharp as glass against the night. Lyra pulled her knees to her chest and listened to the silence that followed.
Dawn was coming.
And with it, the man who would decide if she deserved to live.
- Writer
