Threshold
1146 Words
The man’s hands withdrew from my ankle, and the pressure eased just enough for the pain to settle into something dull and livable. My foot was wrapped tightly now, layers of cloth secured with care that surprised me. I hadn’t expected gentleness. I hadn’t expected anything except to be left behind.
“You are a survivor.”
I sat there on the forest floor, back pressed to the tree, breathing shallowly as if the wrong breath might shatter me. My body felt wrong—too heavy, too light, too aware of itself. Every nerve seemed exposed. I could feel their eyes on me, all three of them, weighing and measuring and deciding what I was worth.
A survivor.
That was what he had called me.
I hated how small that word made me feel.
I tried to stand.
The moment I shifted my weight, pain flared up my leg, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. My vision dimmed at the edges, and I clenched my jaw, refusing to make a sound. I would not cry again. Not in front of strangers. Not after everything.
The taller man moved immediately, steadying me before I could fall. He didn’t speak, didn’t crowd me, just anchored me long enough for me to find my balance. I pulled away as soon as I could, heat flooding my face.
“I’m fine,” I said.
It was a lie. We all knew it.
“You can’t stay here,” the man who had treated my ankle said. His voice was calm, firm without being cruel. “The forest isn’t safe.”
I laughed softly, the sound bitter. “It has not been safe for days.”
They exchanged a look. I caught it out of the corner of my eye—silent communication, practiced and effortless. It irritated me more than it should have.
“We’re moving camp,” the taller one said. “You’re coming with us.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t need—” I began, but the words fell apart as another spike of pain shot through my leg. I staggered, pride crumbling under the weight of my own weakness.
The woman stepped closer. She didn’t look at my face. Instead, her attention seemed fixed somewhere near my feet, her posture strange—too precise, too grounded. Her bare feet still pressed into the soil.
“You’ll slow us down if you pretend you’re stronger than you are,” she said flatly.
My mouth snapped shut.
I hated her instantly.
We moved slowly. Pain dictated every step, every breath. I refused help at first, hopping and limping through the trees, teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. I would not be carried. I would not be dragged. I would walk or I would crawl, but I would do it on my own terms.
The forest blurred around me, shadows stretching and twisting as the light shifted. My ankle throbbed with every step, the bandage darkening slightly despite the care it had been given. I could feel the injury worsening, heat pooling beneath the cloth he had wrapped around my head.
The taller man noticed.
“You’re bleeding again,” he said.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
He went quiet, but he didn’t stop watching. None of them did.
The woman walked slightly ahead of us, her movements odd but confident, never stumbling, never hesitating. She didn’t look back, didn't need to. She seemed to know exactly where we were going without seeing it.
That was when I noticed it.
The way her head tilted—not toward sound, but toward vibration. The way her steps adjusted before the ground changed, not after. The way her eyes never quite focused on anything at all.
Realization crept in slowly, unwelcome and sharp.
I stopped walking.
They stopped too.
The question slipped out of me before I could soften it, before I could dress it in politeness.
“Are you blind?”
The air went still.
The woman froze. Not stiff—just utterly unmoving, like a snapped string. She didn’t turn. Didn’t answer. Didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken.
The taller man inhaled sharply. The calm one frowned, something tight and unreadable crossing his face.
I waited.
Nothing.
The woman stepped forward again, deliberately ignoring me, her feet pressing into the soil with renewed force. She walked as if I didn’t exist.
An awkward, heavy silence settled over us.
I didn’t apologize.
If she was offended, that was her problem. I was tired of tiptoeing around truths that could get me killed.
We didn’t speak again until we reached a small clearing, hidden between ancient trees whose roots twisted like ribs from the earth.
They helped me sit. This time, I didn’t resist. Exhaustion had sunk too deep into my bones.
The calmer brown haired man began piling dry sticks to set up a fire.
When the fire crackled to life, warmth washed over my skin, loosening something tight in my chest. My body betrayed me then—hands trembling, breath stuttering, the weight of everything I’d survived crashing down all at once.
That was when the introductions came.
Not formal. Not grand.
Just names, offered like truce flags in the quiet.
The calm man spoke first.
“My name is Aemond.”
The taller one is quiet.
“And that is Damon,” he points over to the white haired man. “The Black Wolf — people call him.”
The woman waited longer than necessary before saying hers. “Melissa.”
I nodded once, not trusting my voice.
“I’m Chryse.”
It felt strange to say it aloud. Like claiming myself again after being half-buried in the dirt.
No one asked questions. No one pushed. For that, I was grateful.
But later—when the fire burned low, when the forest settled into uneasy stillness—Damon crouched beside me, eyes flicking to my ankle.
“You should let me redo that bandage,” he said. “It’s swelling.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You said that before you collapsed to the ground.”
My breath hitched despite myself.
He softened immediately. “I’m not trying to pry.”
I looked away, jaw trembling. The walls I had built cracked, just enough.
The words spilled out then. Broken. Ugly. Honest.
The village. The bodies. The lycans. The running. The fall.
When I finished, silence stretched between us, thick and heavy with understanding.
No one spoke for a long time.
I stared into the fire, watching sparks rise and die, unaware of the weight of the moment—of the path I had just stepped onto.
I didn’t know then that I had just stepped into the heart of the prophecy meant to kill us all.
- Writer
