*Lyra*
The wind snakes through the hollow shell of what used to be a cabin, rattling loose shingles like old bones. I pull my cloak tighter and step over a collapsed beam, the wood soft under my boots. Bram moves ahead of me, silent, scanning every shadow the way he always does.
It’s been four days since we crossed into Song Pack’s abandoned territory. At first, the quiet felt like a gift. Here there are no rival scouts, no border patrols, no one to contest our presence. Today, though, I catch faint traces of an unfamiliar scent on the wind, and every so often, movement at the tree line makes me certain we are not alone.
I tell myself it’s just the strangeness of living day to day in a place that feels half-wild, half-forgotten. But the truth is, I’ve started listening differently.
