3. Lyra
1175 Words
I closed the door to my chambers and leaned against it, pressing my hands into the cold wood. The echoes from the summit hall—the voices, the armor clanging, the faint hum of magic—faded, leaving only the weight of memory. Aeron Frostborne. Seeing him today, broken, wolf clawing at the edges of control, made the past ache more sharply than I could have imagined.
Christmas Eve. Ten years ago. I was fifteen and reckless, alone in Yulefang territory. The blood moon hung low, red as spilled wine, painting the snow with light that was both holy and dangerous. I should not have been there. Every law of my people, every curse, every whisper of prophecy screamed that a Darkbane must never touch the Alpha of Yulefang. And yet I had come, drawn by something I could not name, something neither of us could resist.
Aeron emerged from the shadows of the cliffs, shoulders broad, stance rigid with authority, silver eyes sharp beneath the crimson glow of the moon. Newly crowned Alpha. The weight of leadership rested on him, but beneath it, his wolf simmered, sensing my presence, sensing the danger, sensing the bond neither of us understood.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and tight. Every movement was taut with restraint. His wolf growled beneath the surface, a low vibration I could feel, warning us both.
“I had to see you,” I said, stepping closer, snow crunching under my boots. My voice was firm even as my chest tightened. “I couldn’t wait for another battle, another council, another year of pretending. I had to know…” My words trembled. “…that you feel it too.”
His eyes darted to the cliffs, to the frozen forest, to every shadow, as if it might betray us. “Lyra, if anyone finds us here, if we… if we cross the line—”
“I know the prophecy,” I interrupted, steadying myself. “I know the curse. I know this is forbidden. But the pull between us isn’t something I can fight.”
He exhaled sharply, wolf surging beneath him, restrained but desperate, and I felt it—the bond, raw and jagged, demanding and insistent. “Lyra… this could destroy everything. Me. You. Our packs.”
“I don’t care,” I said, moving closer until the heat from him brushed my skin. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I can’t pretend anymore. I won’t.”
His jaw tightened, pupils dilating, wolf restless. Then he stepped toward me, closing the final distance. My knees trembled when his hands found my waist. The surge of his wolf pressed against mine, recognition, claiming, desperate. My fingers clutched at his cloak, nails scraping fabric as sparks of magic seemed to arc through the cold night.
The kiss was immediate, urgent. His lips were cold, demanding, claiming. My breath hitched, chest pressing against his, heart hammering. The world contracted to that single moment—the pull, the curse, the blood-moon prophecy all suspended between us. I pressed closer, memorizing him: the set of his jaw, the tilt of his head, the way his wolf stirred beneath his skin, violent and tender at once.
He groaned, lips moving against mine, hands holding me as though letting go could shatter both of us. I tasted winter and fire and something more, something primal. His wolf clawed upward, brushing against mine, recognizing me, claiming me, screaming against the rules of bloodlines and destiny.
“I—” he tried to speak, voice rough, but the words caught. He drew me into him again, pressing his forehead against mine, eyes silver and bright, trembling with the conflict of desire and duty. “We shouldn’t,” he murmured. “We cannot.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But I am here. And I am not afraid.”
The moment stretched, long and electric. Every nerve was alive, every heartbeat loud in the cold. I could feel the prophecy twisting around us, the curse warning, the fate between our veins screaming at us both. And then, slowly, painfully, he pulled back, breathing hard, jaw tight, eyes wide with restraint and longing.
“Lyra… we can’t,” he said. “Not like this. Not ever. If anyone sees—”
“Why give us this bond, if we are forbidden?” I demanded, voice shaking with anger and despair. “Why pull me to you, if we cannot be together?”
His shoulders stiffened. He looked away, wolf surging beneath him, trembling. “Because some things are too dangerous. We cannot risk it. Even for a moment.”
The next day, under the eyes of both packs, he made his choice. The hall was alive with frost and tension, warriors standing at attention, magic humming faintly along the stone. And he stood at the center, silver eyes sharp, expression distant.
He had two options that day, as the Christmas Day summit could either bring him a new mate, solidifying his position as Alpha, or deny his true mate and suffer the consequences. As I lingered across the hall, sitting next to my father, I could only watch as he openly crushed my heart for all to see.
“Lyra,” he said, voice calm and clear, carrying across the gathered warriors. “We are enemies. You are Darkbane. I am Frostborne. As we are forbidden to touch, this ends here. We can never see each other again.”
The words cut deeper than any blade. The blood-moon pull, the bond, the bond I had just felt in the night, throbbed in my veins, relentless. He did not touch me, did not look at me with the tenderness from the night before. Yet the pull remained, tethering us together in defiance of law, curse, and reason.
Whispers moved through the hall, elders shifting uncomfortably, warriors stiffening. My face burned, and for a moment, I could not breathe. He had chosen the prophecy over me, the pack over desire, duty over fate. And still, the bond pulsed, undeniable, inescapable.
I turned sharply, fleeing the hall, snow crunching beneath my boots, the echoes of his rejection and my own heartbeat racing ahead of me. That night, the memory of his lips, the pull of the bond, and the sting of his public denial carved themselves into me. It was the wound that would define my exile, my growth, the woman I became. Ten years of distance, training, battle, exile. Ten years of remembering, of wanting, of surviving.
And now, here in Yulefang territory, after seeing him again for the first time in a decade, fractured, wolf restless, shoulders trembling, the past refuses to remain buried. My wolf presses against my ribs, alert, insistent, recognizing him long before I allow myself. I am not the girl who kissed him under the blood moon. I am Lyra Darkbane, warrior, princess, lethal. And yet, the bond that was never broken waits between us, dangerous, inevitable, and impossible to ignore.
- Writer
