Whispers of the Alpha's Mate

Chapter seven

The morning after Lyara’s birthday, the air in the village felt heavy. The sweet scent of Serenya’s bread drifted faintly through the square, but it no longer brought comfort. It was drowned out by murmurs and whispers, each sharp as a blade. When Lyara stepped out with a basket, silence swept across the marketplace. Mothers pulled their children close. Men turned their backs, muttering into their beards. Someone spat on the ground as she passed. “Witch,” one voice hissed low.

“Curse-bringer,” another spat.

“She should have been left to die with her parents.” Lyara froze, her storm-grey eyes flickering with hurt, but she forced herself to walk on. Every step felt heavier, as though the ground itself was rejecting her.

By the time she returned to Serenya’s cottage, her hands were shaking. She placed the basket on the table without saying a word. Serenya, seeing her pale face, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “They don’t know the truth,” Serenya whispered. “Fear makes people cruel.” “But what if they’re right?” Lyara’s voice cracked. “What if I am the reason this keeps happening?” Before Serenya could respond, a frantic knock rattled the door. Elira burst in, her cheeks flushed from running. “They found something!” she gasped. “By the stream. You need to hear this.”

The villagers had gathered near the banks of the stream, and the air was thick with dread. On the grass lay a half-smashed basket, a broken knife, and a pool of dried blood. Dark claw marks raked deep into the bark of a nearby tree. The missing man’s family wept, clutching each other, while the elders whispered in a tight circle.

Lyara’s breath caught in her throat. Wolves. “They say it was them,” Elira whispered, her eyes wide. “The wolves took him. They left nothing but blood.” Then, as if carried by the wind, another whisper spread through the villagers.

“It happened after her birthday…”

“She drew them here…”

“The curse walks among us.”

All eyes turned to Lyara, some filled with fear, others with anger. “Enough!” Serenya’s voice rang out as she pushed forward. Her face was stern, her age showing in the lines of her brow, but her presence commanded silence. “The wolves have hunted these lands for generations. Blaming my niece for every drop of blood spilled is cowardice!” A man stepped forward—broad-shouldered, his eyes hard. “And yet since she came of age, the killings have grown worse. You can’t deny it, Serenya. That girl’s presence is poison.” “She is no poison!” Serenya snapped, her voice fiery. “She is flesh and blood, no different from any of you…”

“Different enough,” another muttered. “Look at her eyes. She’s not like us.”

The crowd erupted into an argument, voices clashing like thunder. Some sided with Serenya, but many more hurled accusations. Lyara stood frozen, her heart pounding. She wanted to shout, to defend herself, but the words tangled in her throat. Her vision blurred with tears. When Serenya finally pulled her away from the chaos, Lyara stumbled back to their cottage, numb. She collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her hands. “They hate me,” she whispered, her voice muffled. “They’ll never stop hating me.”

Serenya knelt beside her, stroking her hair just as she had when Lyara was a child. “Let them speak their poison. You are not what they claim. You hear me, Lyara? You are not the curse.” But Lyara couldn’t shake the words she had overheard: the curse walks among us. That night, lying in the dark with her chest tight from grief, the dreams came again. The voice in the shadows.The wolf’s howl echoing in her soul. And the same words whispered through her mind, deeper than thought itse

lf:

“You are mine.”