She didn’t kneel.
She asked.
Her name was Lyra, and she was barely eighteen—newly shifted, wolf still unsure of her own bones. She stood at the edge of the camp at dawn, hands shaking, eyes red from sleepless nights.
“I don’t want to disappear,” she said.
The words landed harder than any threat.
Ronan stepped forward instinctively, but she shook her head.
“Not you,” Lyra said softly. Her gaze fixed on me. “Her.”
My chest tightened.
“What do you need?” I asked.
Lyra swallowed. “To be told I matter.”
Silence stretched.
This was the danger no one warned me about.
Fear could be confronted.
Anger could be defied.
But need—
Need cut straight through defenses.
“I hear a voice,” Lyra continued, tears spilling freely now. “It says I can belong without fighting. Without being strong.
