Shadows and secrets
706 Words
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Chapter Eleven: Shadows and Secrets
The air inside the packhouse was heavy — not with smoke this time, but with silence. The kind that came after fear had done its damage. Outside, the forest still bore scars of the Bloodmoon Clan’s attack: trees clawed open, ashes buried in damp soil, and the faint metallic scent of battle clinging to the wind.
Lyra sat by the window, her hands trembling over a cup of tea gone cold. The cup rattled once, and she steadied it quickly, pretending it was just the wind. But she knew better. Her magic — the thing she was never supposed to have — was responding again.
Kael entered quietly. His dark hair was still damp from the rain, his jacket heavy with mud. “You should rest,” he said, voice low but firm.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not after what happened.”
He sighed, pulling a chair to sit beside her. “No one blames you, Lyra.”
She met his eyes. “They should. They looked at me like I was one of them — like the enemy.”
“You saved lives,” Kael said. “That’s all that matters.”
But Lyra could still hear the whispers in the corridors, the way the pack members had stared at her — at the fire in her hands and the light that had burst from her when she screamed. Magic wasn’t meant to exist among wolves, especially not hers. It wasn’t fire or wind or anything natural; it was something older, deeper… frightening.
Kael noticed her silence. “You’re afraid of yourself.”
“Aren’t you?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer. His gaze shifted to the forest beyond the window. “I’ve seen power destroy people. I won’t let it destroy you.”
Before she could respond, a knock came at the door. A young scout entered, pale and nervous. “Alpha, we found something by the northern border.”
Kael stood. “What is it?”
The scout hesitated, glancing at Lyra. “A sigil, carved into the trees. It’s… royal.”
Lyra’s stomach tightened. “Royal?” she repeated. “What kind?”
The scout swallowed. “It bears the D’Amara crest.”
The room went still.
Kael’s head turned sharply toward her. “Your family.”
Lyra’s pulse raced. “They wouldn’t— they disowned me. They don’t care what happens to me.”
“Or maybe they do now,” Kael said grimly.
He ordered the scout to bring the carving, and within minutes, the sigil — etched into a shard of bark — was laid before them. The elegant swirl of the D’Amara insignia gleamed faintly under the lantern light, and beneath it, burned into the wood, were three words written in the ancient magical script: We know, Lyra.
Her breath caught. “No,” she whispered, stepping back. “No, this isn’t possible.”
Kael reached for the shard, but Lyra snatched it away, trembling. “They can’t know. They can’t!”
“Lyra,” he said softly, “what if they’ve been watching all along?”
A strange heat flickered under her skin — not the gentle warmth she’d felt before, but something fierce, wild. The lights in the room dimmed, shadows stretching like living things. Kael’s hand went to her arm.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”
Her magic pulsed again, but she forced it down, pressing her palms to her chest. Slowly, the air stilled.
Kael looked at her, worry and awe blending in his eyes. “Whatever they did to you, whatever they tried to hide — it’s coming back.”
She shook her head, tears forming. “I don’t want it. I just want to be normal.”
He leaned closer. “You were never meant to be normal, Lyra. Maybe that’s what scares them.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then a howl echoed from outside — sharp, urgent. Kael stood immediately. “Another attack?”
The scout at the door shook his head. “No, Alpha. It’s a messenger. From the royal court.”
Lyra’s blood ran cold.
Kael turned to her. “They’re coming for you.”
- Writer
