Chapter 7
1290 Words
The next morning, Lyra dragged herself to her chores. Her body moved, but her mind was heavy, every thought circling back to one thing: the Trial.
At the kennels, Calder found her throwing scraps into the troughs.
“You should eat,” he said flatly.
Lyra did not look at him. “If I eat, someone will say I stole it.”
Calder’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “You’ll need strength for what’s coming.”
She finally looked at him. “Do you think I’ll survive?”
His eyes hardened. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you break before the end.”
Lyra’s grip tightened on the bucket. “You sound like you want me to fail.”
“I don’t care if you fail,” Calder said. “But the pack does. And what the pack wants…” He let the words hang.
Before she could answer, a shadow fell across the kennel yard. Darius stood at the gate, silent, watching her.
Lyra’s heart stuttered. She set down the bucket and faced him.
“Representative,” Calder said quickly, bowing his head. “I didn’t know you’d be”
“Leave us,” Darius said. His voice carried no anger, only command. Calder obeyed without question.
Now it was just Lyra and the emissary, the smell of dogs and straw around them, the iron collar tight against her neck.
Darius stepped closer, his eyes steady. “You are afraid.”
Lyra swallowed. “Wouldn’t you be?”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Fear is expected. But fear also reveals truth. I will find yours.”
Lyra met his gaze, her pulse hammering. “And if there is no truth to find?”
“Then the pack lies.” Darius’s voice was quiet, almost dangerous. “And I do not tolerate lies.”
Darius’s words hung in the air, sharp as the scent of iron in the kennels.
“And what if the lies are all they have?” Lyra whispered.
“Then,” Darius said, his eyes narrowing, “truth will break through anyway. It always does.”
Lyra searched his face, looking for a sign of mercy, belief, anything human. But his gaze remained unreadable, like a storm cloud that refused to move.
“You’ll judge me before you even listen,” she said bitterly.
“No,” he replied. “I’ll listen. But judgment comes all the same. Do not mistake one for the other.”
Before she could answer, a howl split the air from the direction of the packhouse. Darius tilted his head toward the sound.
“Your pack calls,” he said. “We will speak again.”
And just like that, he left her standing with her bucket, her hands trembling though she forced her face into stillness.
Inside the Alpha’s hall, Miriam stood at the head of the long table. Warriors and elders filled the benches, their voices low until she raised her hand. Silence settled quickly.
“The emissary has arrived,” Miriam said smoothly. “The Trial will be swift. But we must ensure the councilman sees what we all know—that Lyra Hale brings death and ruin.”
“She denies it,” one of the elders grumbled. “The girl speaks with conviction.”
“Conviction is not truth,” Miriam said sharply. “You’ve all seen what follows her. The Luna burned. The Alpha fell. Do you truly think that was chance?”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Some nodded grimly, others kept their eyes lowered.
Calder shifted uncomfortably. “The emissary will judge for himself. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
Miriam’s gaze snapped to him. “And risk him being swayed by her silver tongue? No. We will remind him what she is.”
A warrior leaned forward, his scarred knuckles tapping the table. “How?”
“Stories,” Miriam replied. Her smile was cold. “The Shadow Council believes in patterns. We will give them patterns. Every illness, every failed harvest, every lost scout—we will lay it at her feet. When he hears it all together, even her denials will sound like poison.”
“And if she resists?” another asked.
Miriam’s eyes gleamed. “Then she will look desperate. And desperation condemns faster than any witness.”
The room hummed with dark agreement. Only Calder’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides.
Lyra did not know of their plotting. She sat by the kennels long after Darius left, her knees drawn to her chest. The collar pressed when she breathed too deep. She wished for her mother’s voice, her father’s hand, anything to anchor her.
Instead, footsteps approached. Lani crouched beside her.
“You spoke with him?” Lani asked in a whisper.
“Yes.” Lyra’s voice cracked. “He says he listens. But listening feels no different than judging.”
Lani touched her arm gently. “Then you give him something to listen to. Don’t let them write your story for you.”
Lyra laughed, a broken sound. “My story’s already written in their eyes.”
“Not in mine,” Lani said fiercely. “And maybe not in his.”
Lyra looked at her friend. “Why would you risk yourself for me?”
“Because,” Lani whispered, “if they can destroy you, they can destroy anyone. Someone has to stand.”
Lyra wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe one voice could change anything. But she remembered the whispers, the cruel hands, the endless nights alone and doubt coiled tighter around her heart.
That evening, Miriam sought Darius in his chambers. The emissary stood by the window, watching the moon climb over the trees.
“You’ve seen her,” Miriam said, her tone honeyed. “Surely you sense it too. The curse in her blood.”
Darius did not turn. “What I sense,” he said, “is a pack eager to condemn a girl before her Trial.”
Miriam’s smile did not falter. “Eagerness born of truth. Ask any of us. You will hear the same story again and again.”
“Repetition does not make truth,” Darius said coldly.
“Perhaps not,” Miriam allowed. She stepped closer, her perfume cloying in the air. “But it makes belief. And belief is all a pack needs to survive.”
Finally, Darius turned. His eyes cut through her mask of grace. “You are careful with your words. Too careful.”
Miriam’s smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. But then it returned, smooth as silk. “I care only for the safety of my people. You will see, in time.”
Darius studied her for a long, heavy moment. “I will see,” he said quietly. “But whether it damns the girl or the pack remains to be decided.”
Miriam stiffened, but she did not answer. She only inclined her head and slipped from the chamber, her composure flawless once more.
That night, Lyra dreamed of fire again. The walls of her childhood home burned, her mother’s voice screaming her name. Then the dream shifted to when her father fell, his blood spreading across the forest floor.
And then, the storm-gray eyes of the emissary turned toward her. Not hateful, not kind, only inevitable.
She woke with a gasp, her sheets damp with sweat, her body trembling. Outside her window, the crow called once, then was silent.
Lyra pressed her palms to her face.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow they will find a new way to break me.
And deep in the shadows of the packhouse, voices were already planning exactly how.
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