The storm had passed, but its scent still clung to the den.
Outside, rain dripped from the canopy in lazy rhythm, leaves heavy with water and moonlight. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Most of the pack slept soundly—curled under furs or nestled together in soft snores and gentle dreams.
But Lyra was awake.
She sat alone near the mouth of the den, her cloak wrapped
tightly around her, the mooncub resting quietly in her lap. Her fingers idly stroked its downy ears while her thoughts drifted like mist.
It had been one moon cycle since she fell into this world.
One moon cycle of learning to survive, to hide, to adapt—and to care.
And somehow… caring was the most dangerous thing of all.
---
She didn't hear Lykos approach.
He was like that—silent as a breeze until he was there,
taller than the trees, heavier than a shadow.
"You're not sleeping," he said simply, sitting beside her
without waiting for an invitation.
She smiled faintly. "Neither are you."
"I keep watch when it rains. The world is quieter, but never
still."
She nodded, hugging her knees. "I like the sound of the
rain. It reminds me of Earth."
Lykos tilted his head slightly. "Your world had storms,
too?"
She let out a soft laugh. "Plenty. Some worse than anything
I've seen here."
He looked away. "I find that hard to believe."
"Because I'm fragile?" she teased gently.
"Because you smile too easily," he replied.
The quiet stretched between them like a thread, thin but
unbroken.
---
"Do you miss it?" he asked, after a pause. "Your world?"
"Yes," she whispered. "But not everything in it."
He glanced at her sideways. "And what do you not miss?"
Lyra thought for a moment. "The loneliness."
He didn't speak. His expression remained unreadable.
But then he shifted slightly, just enough so their shoulders
touched.
Not by accident.
She stilled.
Her heart was no longer hers—it fluttered like a trapped
bird behind her ribs.
---
"You could run," he said softly. "Try to escape. Find
another territory. Another alpha. Maybe even return to your world."
She swallowed. "Could I?"
"No." He looked at her now, fully. "You're bound here. Maybe by the Eden Core. Maybe by something older."
"Older than magic?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached forward and gently brushed a damp curl
from her cheek.
His claws were retracted. His touch was careful. Careful
like she was porcelain. Or sacred.
"I shouldn't want to protect you," he murmured. "You're a
storm in my den. A root twisting through the cracks of my control."
Her breath hitched.
"But I do."
---
She turned toward him slowly.
The moonlight slid across his features—the high arch of his
cheekbone, the silver glint in his eyes, the faint scar near his temple. He
looked carved from ice and iron… but he was warm.
"I never asked you to," she whispered.
"No," he said. "You didn't."
He leaned in. Close. So close her breath trembled against
his.
"But you still look at me like I'm more than a beast. That's
worse than any order you could've given."
Her lips parted. "And you look at me like I'm going to
break."
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her chin.
"You already did," he whispered. "The moment you smiled at
me."
---
He didn't kiss her.
But he held her gaze like it was a promise.
And in that still, silvery moment, Lyra felt the threads of
fate pulling tighter—not as chains, but as something soft and unyielding.
Something that couldn't be undone.
She leaned against his shoulder, letting her cheek rest
against the smooth fabric of his hunting cloak.
Lykos let out a breath.
And for the first time since she arrived, Lyra fell asleep
not feeling alone.