Chapter 58 – Lyra’s Rage
The storm broke at dawn.
Rain lashed against the broken earth, washing away blood but not the memory of battle. Smoke still clung to the air, coiling in the gray light as if reluctant to leave. Wolves carried their wounded into the shelter of shattered tents, healers moving with frantic hands and solemn eyes. The dead were laid in rows, their bodies covered, their names whispered like fragile threads trying to hold the pack together.
But no voice carried louder than Lyra’s.
She stood at the edge of the camp, her violet eyes sharp as blades, her chest heaving with fury as she faced Seren.
“You should have let him die,” Lyra spat, the words cutting like claws.
The camp hushed. Wolves turned, their movements faltering. The rain pattered between them, a thin veil
