LYRA
The mirror never lied. I’d stood before it long enough to know that, long enough for the shower’s steam to dissipate and the chill air to prickle my skin. The reflection had finally settled, revealing something I couldn’t dismiss as a trick of the light or an odd angle.
There was a mark between my breasts.
Right there, centered, resting on my sternum with the undeniable permanence of something placed with deliberate intent. It was white—not a pale white, or a faded white, not the kind of white that suggests a scar or a birthmark. This was a white like the wolf had been, luminous, as if it generated its own light from within, rather than merely borrowing it from the room.
I touched it with two fingers. Warm. A faint pulse thrummed beneath my fingertips, like a second heartbeat that
