The Exile
715 Words
Lyra Ashbourne did not remember leaving the ceremonial grounds.
She only remembered the pain.
It followed her like a living thing—coiling in her chest, tightening with every step she took away from the pack she had called home. The bond Kael Nightfell had shattered still burned, its remnants slicing through her veins with each uneven breath.
Rejection sickness.
She had heard the elders speak of it in hushed tones. How rejected mates rarely survived the first night. How the pain could hollow a wolf out from the inside until there was nothing left but silence.
Lyra stumbled through the forest, bare feet scraping against sharp stones and twisted roots. The moonlight filtered weakly through the canopy above, pale and distant now—no longer warm, no longer hers.
Her vision blurred.
Stay upright, she told herself. Do not fall. Do not die here.
Behind her, Nightfell territory loomed like a shadow she was no longer allowed to touch.
When she finally collapsed, it was beside the old boundary stone—the one that marked the edge of the pack lands. Ancient runes were carved into its surface, worn smooth by time. Lyra pressed her trembling palm against the stone as if it could anchor her.
The pain surged.
A scream tore from her throat as she curled into herself, clutching her chest. Her heartbeat stuttered, then raced, then faltered again.
This is how it ends, a voice whispered in her mind.
Her breath hitched.
“No,” Lyra rasped aloud. “Not like this.”
The air around her shifted.
The forest went unnaturally still—no wind, no insects, no distant howls. Even the pain hesitated, as though something older and stronger had entered the space.
The runes on the boundary stone flared to life.
Silver-black light spilled from beneath Lyra’s skin, winding around her wrists, her throat, her heart. It didn’t burn.
It answered.
Lyra gasped as warmth spread through her body, soothing the shattered edges of her bond. The pain did not vanish, but it dulled—bowed—like a beast forced into submission.
Images flooded her mind.
A throne bathed in moonlight.
Wolves kneeling—not in fear, but in reverence.
A crown forged of shadow and silver.
Lyra cried out, her body arching as power surged through her veins. For a heartbeat, the earth beneath her feet trembled.
Then—silence.
The light faded. The runes dimmed. The forest exhaled.
Lyra lay still, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. She was alive.
Barely.
Footsteps approached.
She stiffened, fear slicing through her exhaustion. With the last of her strength, Lyra forced her eyes open.
A man stood a few feet away, tall and lean, his presence sharp and dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with pack hierarchy. His eyes were an unusual shade of gold, reflecting the moonlight like a predator’s.
“You crossed the boundary,” he said calmly. “That usually kills people.”
Lyra tried to sit up—and failed.
“Then I must be difficult,” she whispered hoarsely.
The man studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the faint, fading glow beneath her skin. Something unreadable flickered across his face.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
He crouched beside her, not touching, not yet.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lyra Ashbourne.”
Recognition flashed briefly in his eyes.
“The Alpha King’s rejected mate,” he said quietly.
Lyra’s jaw tightened. “I am no one’s mate.”
A corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile.
“We’ll see,” he replied.
He rose to his feet and extended a hand.
“My name is Darius Vane,” he said. “And if you stay here, you’ll die before sunrise.”
Lyra stared at his hand, then up at the stranger who stood between her and the darkness.
Trust was a luxury she no longer had.
But survival?
That was not optional.
With shaking fingers, Lyra reached out and took his hand.
And as he pulled her to her feet, far away in the heart of Nightfell territory—
Kael Nightfell staggered, clutching his chest, his wolf roaring in fury and regret.
The bond had not disappeared.
It had only changed.
- Writer
