Chapter 2
1505 Words
Lyra — Age 6
Blackwood Pack Territory, Alaska
Night after night, the dreams returned, unrelenting as the arctic tide. That was the first truth Lyra grasped. The second was that she did not want them to cease. At six years old, she already knew Alaska kept certain things immutable: the hush of fresh snow, the weight of silence draping the world, the way people could stand shoulder to shoulder and still feel oceans apart. But this—this belonged to her alone.
She breathed it deep and told no one. Not her parents, who spoke of border patrols and ancient pack alliances with voices cold and practical. Not the elders, who watched her with narrowed eyes as though waiting to mark the moment she faltered. Not the other children, who’d long since decided she was odd, a little too quiet, a little too far away. And certainly not him. If she spoke his name aloud, she feared he would vanish like smoke in the night.
Every dusk, he came. Sometimes only in sensations: a comforting heat that crept beneath her blankets, soft as a hearth’s embers, stirring through the frozen darkness of her small room. A presence that settled beside her mattress, unseen but palpable, as if the very air around her hummed. On the coldest nights, she even caught the faint tang of woodsmoke, curling through her closed window.
Other times, the dream painted itself in color and motion. She found herself standing at the edge of a towering cliff. Below, the wind whispered through jagged rocks; above, the sky arched infinite, its darkness laced with distant stars. Far across the void, a colossal shape waited—unmoving yet alive, watching her with a patience that shone in its eyes. Gold. Burning. Expectant.
Lyra could not name what he was—dragon? spirit? a fragment of some old magic?—but she knew this: when morning light crept in and she blinked awake, her small heart ached for him. The daylight hours felt colder, as though the air itself missed the warmth she’d carried through the night.
Blackwood territory stretched around her world: a patchwork of pine forests and rocky spines of mountains, sealed off by ridges so high they dragged the clouds. No towns. No strangers. No escape. Only the pack’s hidden paths and the wilderness that tolerated them. Lyra sometimes wandered to the tree line, the pines brushing her hair, and stared beyond, wondering what lay across that invisible boundary—cities bustling with life, people who might reach out and truly see her.
One afternoon, her mother’s cool voice drifted behind her: “You’re doing it again.”
Lyra did not turn. The sudden ripple in her chest told her mother was near.
Her mother’s breath was steady, measured. “You are searching.”
Lyra’s fingers tightened at her sides. Perhaps she was. A gentle warmth stirred beneath her ribs, ever-present, ever-quiet.
You will not find it by wishing, came his low whisper in her mind.
She frowned. How, then?
Silence answered her for long moments. Then, in that same patient tone: That answer is not yours yet.
Lyra exhaled, heart both heavy and grateful. He told her things—but never all.
Later, in the library’s hushed glow, she settled into her favorite corner. The broad hearth fire crackled, sending flickers of light dancing across wooden shelves laden with leather-bound tomes. Somewhere above, her parents’ murmured voices drifted down.
Her father’s voice: “…not weak enough to challenge us now.”
A second voice, too soft to catch.
Her mother: “Weak things become dangerous when cornered.”
Lyra stared at the hefty volume on her lap—its pages filled with symbols she could barely decipher. The word “weak” echoed in her mind, settling like a stone in her chest.
You should not read what is not meant for you.
The book slipped from her small hands. She did not gasp or look around. She only stilled, breath held tight.
You’re here?
A thrill of warmth bloomed at her back.
Yes, his voice murred in her mind, steady as the mountains.
Her pulse fluttered. Can you hear me all the time?
More than you realize.
Instead of fear, she felt… seen.
Where are you?
Far from you.
Another pause, heavy with unspoken distance.
But not far enough.
Lyra frowned. It made no sense. Why her?
Silence stretched, as vast as that dream-cliff. Finally: Because you were never meant to be overlooked.
Her breath caught. No one had ever said such a thing to her.
Footsteps on the stairs. She looked up as her mother appeared in the doorway, composed as ice but with eyes flitting to the fallen volume.
“That is beyond your level,” Selene said softly.
Lyra swallowed. “I know.”
“Then why pretend to read it?”
Because it gave her something to look at while she spoke to someone no one else could see. “I wanted to try.”
Her mother’s expression flickered—almost tenderness—then closed again. “Come. Dinner.”
Lyra rose, the warmth humming through her like a hidden promise.
At the long pinewood table, the lamplight glimmered off pewter bowls. Conversation wound through pack strategies and scent markers, each word weighed and measured. Her father’s voice harshly cut across: “You are fidgeting.”
She froze, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” she murmured.
A pulse of heat slid along her spine, and in her mind, his voice rumbled: “The world will learn to make space for you. You do not shrink for it.”
Lyra’s small hand squeezed her fork. “Nothing,” she lied when her father pressed. But something inside her had shifted, just enough to matter.
That night she climbed into bed before the moon had fully risen. Outside, the wind coiled through the trees, restless and low. She lay beneath her woolen blankets, watching darkness pool around her pillow.
“Are you there?” she whispered.
Silence. Her chest tightened as if she might lose him forever.
Then warmth gathered at her side, soft and sure. I am here.
Relief washed through her like dawn’s first glow. “I thought you left.”
I told you I would not.
She turned onto her back, staring into the black that felt less empty now. “You don’t always answer.”
I answer when it matters.
“That’s not fair.”
You have said this before, he reminded her patiently.
Lyra huffed a small breath. “Will you show yourself again?”
Silence stretched. Then, quietly: You have seen enough for now.
“That’s not what I want.”
The warmth deepened, wrapping her in courage.
Sleep, Lyra.
“I’m not tired.”
You are.
She hesitated, then whispered, “I belong here.”
The words felt untrue on her lips, but she spoke them anyway.
Perhaps
The single word hung between them, heavy with promise and doubt.
Sleep came swiftly, and with it the dream, sharper than ever. She stood on the cliff once more, but now the air scorched her skin and the wind cut like knives. The sky above was a deep, storm-forged violet.
He was closer this time—no longer a distant silhouette but a living, thunderous presence. His scales flickered in flashes of cerulean blue, molten gold, and bruised purple. Each breath he drew sent a ripple of heat over the stone.
“You came back,” she whispered.
You called.
She stepped forward until she could see the ridges of his horns and the slitted gleam of his iris. “You’re real.”
Yes. His voice thrummed through her bones.
“Why do you stay with me?”
Silence, full of ancient patience. Then, low and sure: Because you matter.
Those words struck her like a crack of lightning. “No one waits for me,” she breathed.
A surge of fire bloomed along the rock behind her. Sparks danced in the darkness.
I do.
Lyra stilled, heart pounding. “Why?”
He did not answer at once. When he spoke, his voice was soft, yet every echo rang with everything he could not say. Because there has never been a moment you were unseen.
She closed her eyes, inhaled the dragon’s fierce warmth. Tentatively, she lifted a trembling hand and brushed her fingertips across his massive snout. Scales, hard as ancient armor, warm and real beneath her skin.
For a heartbeat, something else flickered into view—a shadow of a man beneath the dragon’s colossal form, eyes too human, too familiar. Then it was gone.
Lyra’s breath caught. “What was that?”
A part of me.
Her pulse thundered. Closer. He was coming closer.
She awoke tangled in blankets, her skin still humming with heat, the memory of that half-glimpse burning behind her eyelids. And in her chest, an impossible truth settled: he was not just in her dreams anymore. He was drawing near.
- Writer
