The daughter of a betrayer
POV: Lyra
The day Adrian Draven returned to Blackthorn, my father’s name was whispered through the village before I even knew why.
“Lyra Veyne.”
I heard it behind me as I crossed the village square with a basket of herbs pressed against my hip.
I kept walking.
Turning around never stopped the whispers. It only made people lower their voices for a moment before starting again.
“That’s the traitor’s daughter.”
“She still lives here?”
“After what her father did?”
I tightened my grip on the basket.
VEYNE.
That name had followed me for as long as I could remember.
People in Blackthorn knew my father’s name better than they knew mine. To them, I wasn’t Lyra, the girl who sold herbs in the square or helped her mother around the house.
I was his daughter.
His blood.
His mistake.
My father had betrayed Blackthorn Pack years ago. Everyone knew that much.
Everyone except me.
I had grown up with pieces of the story instead of the truth. Whenever I asked questions, adults became uncomfortable. Conversations stopped. My mother would find some reason to change the subject.
And whatever my father had done, it had cost our family everything.
He disappeared.
My mother raised me alone.
And I inherited the name he left behind.
I stopped beside the herb stall and set down my basket.
“Morning, Lyra.”
The old merchant gave me a small smile.
“Morning.”
He didn’t stare at me.
That simple kindness almost made me smile.
I began sorting the herbs.
Mint.
Moonleaf.
Silverroot.
My hands knew what to do even when my mind didn’t.
“Lyra.”
I looked up.
My mother was walking toward me.
Evelyn Veyne had tied her dark hair loosely behind her head, but several strands had escaped around her face. She glanced at my basket before looking at me.
“You’ve been awake since before sunrise.”
“I wanted to help.”
“You always want to help.”
“Someone has to.”
Her expression softened, but only for a moment.
“People are talking again.”
I shrugged. “People are always talking.”
“Lyra.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know.”
She reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face.
“But you shouldn’t have to.”
I looked down.
That was the problem with my mother.
She could always tell when I was pretending.
I had spent years pretending the whispers didn’t hurt. Pretending I didn’t wonder what my father had actually done. Pretending I didn’t care that everyone else seemed to know something about my own family that I didn’t.
I finally looked at her.
“Did you ever hate him?”
Her hand stopped.
She didn’t need to ask who I meant.
For a long moment, she stared toward the forest.
“I hated what he did.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Pain crossed her face.
“No,” she whispered. “I never hated him.”
My chest tightened.
“Even after everything?”
“I loved him once.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
“Then tell me the truth.”
Her eyes returned to mine.
“Why won’t you tell me what really happened?”
“Because you don’t need to carry what he left behind.”
“I’ve been carrying it my whole life.”
She looked away.
“Some truths are dangerous, Lyra.”
“Dangerous for who?”
“For you.”
Before I could ask another question, a horn sounded from the northern entrance.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
The entire square went silent.
My mother went still.
Around us, conversations died. The merchant abandoned his stall. People stepped out of their homes. Even the elders leaving the council hall stopped to look toward the northern road.
I frowned.
“What is happening?”
My mother’s face had lost its color.
“Come home.”
“Why?”
“Now, Lyra.”
She grabbed my wrist.
I pulled back.
“Mother, what is it?”
Then someone shouted from the crowd.
“He’s back!”
A murmur swept through the square.
“Who?”
Another voice answered.
“Adrian Draven.”
My mother’s grip tightened around my wrist.
I froze.
Adrian.
For a moment, the square disappeared.
I remembered a boy running through the forest with me.
A boy who used to laugh when I couldn’t keep up.
A boy who once promised that nothing would ever come between us.
A boy who stopped being my friend the day my father’s betrayal destroyed everything.
But that boy was gone.
Someone near the fountain shouted again.
“The Alpha has returned!”
Another voice followed.
“He has taken his father’s place!”
My heart began to pound.
Adrian Draven was no longer the boy I remembered.
He was the Alpha of Blackthorn.
And if he remembered me, he would remember exactly who I was.
Lyra Veyne.
The daughter of the man who had betrayed his family.
My mother pulled me toward home.
This time, I followed.
But as I looked toward the northern road, one thought refused to leave my mind.
What would Adrian do when he finally stood in front of the daughter of his family’s betrayer?
