Lyra pushed open the warped wooden door of the shack, her arms trembling from the weight of the water jugs strapped across her back. Dust clung to her skin like a second layer, and her worn boots dragged on the cracked floorboards. Her legs ached from standing all day, scrubbing floors and hauling sacks of dried grain in exchange for a few copper chips barely enough for a crust of bread and a handful of withered, limp vegetables.
But inside the shack, the scent hit her first.
Meat.
Not some dried rat or scavenged bones boiled for soup but real, cooked meat. Fatty, rich, and sizzling.
Her stomach growled, sharp and violent, and for a moment she thought she was hallucinating. But then she stepped fully inside and saw it: a pot over their tiny fire, steaming with chunks of browned flesh. Her younger brother, Eren, knelt beside it, licking the remnants of grease off his fingers. Her father sat with his back to her, crouched low like he didn't want to be seen. His shoulders were hunched, tense.
"Where did you get meat?" she asked hoarsely, dropping the jugs beside the door.
Eren turned, his eyes bright and smeared with grease. "Papa got it today! Isn't it great? You should come and eat before it gets cold."
She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing on the pot. There was far too much for what they could afford. Far too fresh. Her heart sank. "Where did it come from?"
Her father didn't answer immediately. He didn't look at her.
Lyra stared. "We haven't had real meat in months. What did you trade for this?"
Still nothing.
She felt her chest tighten. "Father… what did you trade?"
He finally looked up. His beard was grayer than she remembered that morning, eyes bloodshot, jaw tense. He didn't answer.
"Lyra," he said instead, "run an errand for me."
She froze. "Now? I just got back."
He stood slowly, his shadow long against the firelight, flickering over the walls. "Now."
"I'm tired," she said, voice low. "I worked the fields until the sun went down. I haven't eaten. I haven't bathed in two days,"
"You want to eat tomorrow?" he snapped. "Then you go. You go now. Take what's left of your strength and do your part."
Eren bounced to his feet. "I can come with you!"
"No," their father barked. "You stay here."
Something in his voice made her pause. Something too sharp, too final.
"Why just me?" she asked.
"Because I said so."
Lyra didn't move. A cold prickling sensation spread across her skin.
She looked at her brother, at the grease still on his chin, the innocent glow in his face. Then she looked at the meat again.
"I'm tired," she said quietly, backing a step toward the door. "Let me go tomorrow."
"No," her father said. "They want it right away."
Lyra's hand curled into a fist. Every instinct in her screamed to run, but where? Eren would suffer. There was no protection for girls without family or some protection. Without her father's word, she would be declared fair prey. She'd seen what happened to girls who were kicked out of their homes.
She had no choice. She never did.
Her voice was hollow. "Fine."
Her father didn't thank her. Just turned back to the pot.
Eren called out cheerfully, "Be safe, Lyra!"
She managed a smile for him. "I will."
The night air was thick and dry as she stepped outside, the distant howls of wolves rolling over the hills. The moon hung low in the sky, a weak sliver of light. She took the main path for only a few feet before veering off onto a dirt trail that led to the outskirts of the village.
The deeper she walked, the quieter everything became.
No lanterns. No fires. No people.
The path ended at a ring of stones, a known marker for the border between the village and the wilds beyond. She stood there, gripping her stringy shawl tighter around her shoulders, and waited. For what, she wasn't sure.
She scanned the area, there was no one in sight. No figure at all.
Only silence. And the sound of her own breath.
She waited a few moments, hugging herself against the cold. Every part of her body was alert now, dread curling in her stomach.
That's when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Not careful ones. Heavy. Confident.
She turned.
A man stepped out from behind the trees. Not cloaked. Not waiting. Just watching.
"Are you the one I'm supposed to meet?" she asked hesitantly.
The man didn't speak.
He was big, taller than anyone in the village, his clothes worn and mud-streaked. His eyes glowed faintly bright in the moonlight.
She took a step back.
"I think I'm in the wrong place," she said. "I'll just go back…"
He lunged.
She spun and ran.
Her legs, aching from the fields, screamed in protest. Her boots slipped in loose dirt. The man was fast. She didn't dare look back.
Twigs snapped behind her.
Then an arm caught her waist. She screamed as she was dragged to the ground.
"No! Get off me!" she kicked and clawed, but his grip was iron.
He rolled her over, pinning her.
His breath reeked of meat and ale.
"Pretty little thing," he rasped, pressing his weight onto her.
"No…" she choked out, kicking at him. "Get off me!"
He caught her leg and twisted, hard, dragging her closer.
"You are a feisty one," he growled. "I like that."
She screamed and clawed at his face, landing a scratch across his cheek. He snarled and struck her, a heavy blow that knocked her head into the dirt.
The world spun.
"Won't make this easy, will you?" he panted, straddling her. "No matter. You'll learn soon enough."
He began to unbuckle his belt.
No.
NO.
She thrashed wildly, but he only laughed. Her nails raked down his cheek, and he backhanded her hard enough to make the trees spin.
He began tearing at her clothes.
Then
A whistle.
The man froze.
The whistle came again, high, sharp, deliberate.
Suddenly, a shadow tore through the trees behind them. Fast. Silent.
Lyra barely had time to register the shape before the man above her went still.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
A line of blood spread across his neck.
Then, his body slumped forward dead weight collapsing on top of her.
She screamed.
A hand dragged the body off her. She scrambled back on her hands, heart thundering, breath shallow.
Standing over her was a man. Tall. Wrapped in a thick coat. Masked. A long blade in one hand, dripping blood.
He didn't speak.
Just looked at her.
Lyra pushed herself upright, trembling.
"Who who are you?" she whispered.
The man tilted his head slightly. His eyes were sharp and there was something strange about the way he moved. controlled, animal-like.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said at last. His voice was low. Rough like gravel, but not unkind.
"I was sent," she choked out. "My father… he told me to come."
The man looked down at the dead body, then back at her. "Then he meant for this to happen."
And the next thing Lyra knew, the man stuck her and everything went black.