Lyra had always been a creature of the wild accustomed to dense forests, silence pierced by distant howls, and the cool earth under her back as she slept with one eye open. The wild didn't judge her, didn't whisper behind her back or look down on her like she was some unpredictable flame waiting to scorch everything it touched.
The packhouse, however, was different.
She stood in the corridor, staring at the row of doors with identical symbols etched into the wood. The scent of fresh linen, cedarwood, and too many unfamiliar wolves hung thick in the air. Every breath felt wrong. Too tame. Too curated.
Lyra's assigned room was at the far end, isolated but not far enough to avoid the subtle message: You're here, but you're not really one of us.
As she stepped inside, the door closed behind her with a soft click, and she turned slowly to take in the space. It was larger than she expected: a small desk, a wooden wardrobe, and a narrow bed dressed in navy-blue sheets. A small window overlooked the southern forest line, and for a fleeting second, she imagined slipping through it, disappearing into the shadows again.
But no. That version of her wild, hunted, alone was behind her now. She'd been bound. Claimed. No matter how much she resisted, this place had become her new reality.
She set her boots aside, unfastened her belt, and sank onto the edge of the bed, feeling every bruise from training with Daria earlier. Her body ached, but her mind was louder. Every moment replayed like an echo: Valen's calculating gaze, Alaric's possessive tone, the whispers from the corridor about separating her from the Alpha.
Trust was a luxury here. And she couldn't afford it.
A soft knock startled her.
She rose instantly, muscles tight. "Who is it?"
"It's Mira," came the gentle reply.
Lyra opened the door, relaxing slightly at the sight of the healer holding a small tray.
"I brought you food," Mira said. "I figured you didn't want to eat in the mess hall tonight."
She stepped aside, allowing Mira to enter. The tray held a steaming bowl of stew, fresh bread, and a glass of water.
"Thanks," Lyra muttered, closing the door behind her.
Mira sat on the edge of the bed while Lyra picked up the bowl, the scent making her stomach growl despite her wariness.
"You should eat. You'll need your strength," Mira said, watching her carefully.
"For what?" Lyra asked between spoonfuls.
"Tomorrow you'll be summoned to the council chamber," Mira said. "Alaric wants to officially introduce you to the pack's inner circle."
Lyra paused mid-bite. "Why? They already hate me."
Mira shook her head. "Not hate. Suspicion. Ravenguard has always functioned like a war machine structured, disciplined, predictable. You're none of those things."
Lyra scoffed. "Great. I'll bring chaos to the machine."
"Sometimes," Mira said quietly, "that's what it needs."
They sat in silence for a few moments. Lyra ate. Mira stared at the door, as if listening for footsteps.
"There's something else, isn't there?" Lyra finally asked.
Mira hesitated. "One of Valen's men tried to question the guards outside Alaric's quarters tonight. He asked if you slept there."
Lyra's stomach turned.
"Why would that matter?"
"If you were staying in the Alpha's wing," Mira said carefully, "you'd be considered more than just bonded, you'd be chosen."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "They're trying to frame it like I'm some kind of mistress?"
"No," Mira said. "They're trying to make it look like Alaric's bond with you wasn't for strategy but for weakness."
Lyra stood, setting the empty bowl down. "And what happens if they succeed?"
"Then they argue you were claimed under emotional bias," Mira answered. "And the council could strip Alaric of his authority to command alone."
She swallowed hard.
"So I'm not just an outsider," Lyra muttered. "I'm a threat to his leadership."
Mira rose and headed to the door. "Be careful tomorrow, Lyra. Say little. Observe everything."
The halls of the packhouse at night were different. Less noise, more tension.
As Lyra stepped out later to clear her head, she kept her steps light, her senses sharp. She padded down the hallway, fingers trailing the stone walls, listening to the occasional murmur of voices behind closed doors and the distant howl of a wolf on patrol.
Then she heard footsteps behind her.
She turned sharply.
A figure stood a few yards away tall, dressed in Ravenguard black, arms folded.
It was Kellan, one of the warriors she had noticed during training. He hadn't spoken to her before, but he'd watched her like she was a ticking bomb.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said flatly.
"I can handle myself," Lyra replied.
"You might think so," he muttered. "But you haven't met all our enemies yet."
She narrowed her eyes. "Is that a threat?"
"Just advice," he said. "Valen doesn't like loose ends. And right now, you're his favorite problem."
He stepped closer.
"Watch your back, rogue. Not everyone here plays by Alpha Draven's rules."
Without another word, he walked past her, disappearing around the corner.
Back in her room, Lyra locked the door and leaned against it.
The packhouse was supposed to be safer than the woods. But tonight, it felt colder than any night she had spent alone under the stars.
Her place here wasn't earned, it was imposed.
She could feel it in every stare, every whisper, every subtle jab masked as advice.
But if they thought they could rattle her, they were wrong.
She had survived worse.
She had survived freedom with a target on her back.
Now? She'd survive this cage too.
Only this time, she wouldn't do it quietly.