Chapter 13 — Starting From Scratch
933 Words
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(Leyla POV)
The first morning in Silver Claw did not feel like freedom.
It felt like standing at the edge of a world too large for my small, broken heart.
The territory stretched wide beneath pale sunlight clean stone paths, tall timber buildings carved with the Silver Claw crest, warriors patrolling in perfect formation.
Smoke curled gently from chimneys, carrying the scent of pine andburning herbs.
It was beautiful.
It was safe.
And yet… it was not home.
I was sixteen.
Parentless.
Carrying a nine year old brother who looked at me like I had all the answers.
I didn’t.
But I had to pretend I did.
Because Samir needed someone unshaken.
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The infirmary smelled of dried lavender, crushed sage, and boiling roots. It reminded me painfully of my mother.
I stood before the head healer, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my simple dress.
“I… I would like to help,” I said, forcing my voice not to tremble. “I can clean. I can organize. I can learn.”
Her sharp eyes studied me carefully. She was not unkind but she was not soft either.
“You are one of the Blood Moon survivors.”
“Yes.”
“You have handled herbs before?”
“My mother taught me basics. Fever remedies. Wound washing. Nothing advanced.”
Silence stretched between us. I could hear someone groaning behind the curtains, a healer giving firm instructions, the sound of mortar grinding leaves into paste.
Finally, she nodded once.
“You may begin by cleaning tools and observing. If you faint at the sight of blood, you leave.”
“I won’t faint,” I whispered.
And I didn’t.
That first week, I scrubbed metal bowls until my hands cracked. I washed blood from cloth. I watched broken bones being set and warriors biting down on leather to keep from howling.
Each night I returned exhausted.
But each night, I placed coins in a small wooden box under our bed.
For Samir.
For our survival.
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Returning to lessons felt humiliating at first.
The classroom was larger than any structure in Blood Moon. Wooden desks aligned perfectly. Maps hung on the walls territories, borders, trade routes. History written boldly.
Silver Claw valued knowledge like they valued strength.
And I felt behind.
The elders who taught us did not lower their standards for survivors. They expected discipline. Precision. Intelligence.
When asked about pack treaties, I stumbled.
When asked to recite the hierarchy laws, I hesitated.
Whispers followed mistakes.
But I refused to shrink.
Every night, after Samir slept, I read by candlelight. I memorized pack law. I studied political structures. I learned about trade agreements and healer regulations.
If I was to survive here, I would not be pitied.
I would be capable.
One afternoon, as I successfully answered a question about territorial alliances, I noticed something subtle.
Respect.
Small. Quiet. But real.
And that was enough
The hardest part was not work.
It was Samir.
At night, he sometimes woke shaking.
I would find him sitting upright, small fists clenched in the blanket.
“I heard them again,” he whispered once.
“There’s no one here,” I told him gently, sitting beside him. “You’re safe.”
But his nightmares were not about present danger.
They were about fire.
About screaming.
About the night our pack burned.
One evening, I took him to the training grounds’ edge, where young boys practiced basic defensive stances under supervision. His eyes lit up watching them.
“You can join next term,” I told him.
“Really?”
“Yes. But you must finish your lessons properly.”
He nodded solemnly, as if accepting an oath.
That was when I understood something important.
Samir did not need me to be strong.
He needed me to believe in a future.
So I began speaking of tomorrow as if it was guaranteed.
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If Silver Claw had given me structure, Warda gave me warmth.
She visited the infirmary almost daily, claiming she came to “check on patient morale,” though she mostly came to chatter.
“My mother says Silver Claw bread tastes better because they grind their grain differently,” she said once, sitting on a stool as I wrapped bandages. “Which is ridiculous, because flour is flour.”
I smiled faintly.
Her mother being alive changed her. She carried joy like sunlight.
Sometimes she teased me.
“You’ve grown serious, Leyla.”
“I have responsibilities.”
“You’ve always had those. I mean… different serious.”
I ignored that.
We walked to school together. We shared lunches. We whispered about pack gossip carefully, because gossip in Silver Claw could cost more than embarrassment.
For two years, life settled into a rhythm.
School.
Infirmary.
Samir.
Warda.
Healing.
Not complete healing.
But steady.
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Sometimes, during training demonstrations or council announcements, I would hear his name.
Idris.
The Alpha’s heir.
Training at the Alpha College.
Returning soon.
The pack spoke of him with certainty — strength, discipline, future leadership.
I tried not to think of the night of rescue.
The way he moved like a shadow.
The way his voice cut through chaos.
He had saved many girls.
I was only one of twenty-eight.
I doubted he remembered my face.
And yet…
Sometimes, when the wind shifted strangely, I felt something I could not name.
Not hope.
Not fear.
Something waiting.
days grew into months and passed like that.
Not easy.
Not perfect.
But stable.
And for someone who had watched her world burn…
Stability felt like a miracle.
- Writer
