The early morning air was brisk as Lyra joined the group of adventurers near the village gates. She tightened her cloak around her, trying not to look too out of place among the seasoned fighters. Most of them were older, carrying well-worn weapons and armor that spoke of years of experience. Lyra felt the weight of her own patchwork armor, its whispers faint but present, as if waiting for something to stir them awake.
"First time joining a group?" a stocky man with a scar across his cheek asked, his tone not unkind.
Lyra hesitated, then nodded. "I usually work alone."
He chuckled, hefting a massive axe onto his shoulder. "You'll get used to it. Stick close, follow orders, and you'll be fine."
Fine, Lyra thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. As long as no one found out about her armor.
The task was straightforward: a pack of feral dusk wolves had been preying on livestock, and the villagers needed them driven off or killed. It wasn't unusual for packs to roam this far from the forest, especially during the leaner months, but these wolves were unusually aggressive. The guildmaster had warned that they might be sick or injured, which only made them more dangerous.
The group set out, five in total, including Lyra. They walked in relative silence, save for the occasional murmur of strategy or idle chatter. Lyra stayed near the back, observing each of her companions. The scarred man—Jonas—seemed to be the leader, while a wiry woman with twin daggers flitted around the group, her movements quick and restless. Two younger men brought up the middle, their spears gleaming in the morning light.
"See anything?" Jonas asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Lyra shook her head. "Not yet."
The whispers stirred faintly, like a breeze through dry leaves. Lyra's fingers brushed the edge of her armor as she scanned the surrounding fields. Something felt off, though she couldn't place it.
They reached the edge of the woods, where the remains of a slaughtered goat marked the wolves' territory. Jonas knelt by the carcass, frowning. "Fresh. They're close."
The whispers surged suddenly, a low hum that made Lyra's heart race. She gripped her blade tighter, her eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. The others seemed unaware of the shift, their focus on the physical signs of danger.
A growl broke the silence.
"Formation!" Jonas barked, his axe at the ready.
The wolves emerged from the underbrush, their sleek gray bodies moving like rippling shadows. There were four of them, their eyes glowing with unnatural light. Lyra's chest tightened as the whispers roared to life, louder and more urgent than ever before.
The first wolf lunged, met by Jonas's axe in a brutal clash of muscle and steel. The two spear-wielders moved to flank the others, their weapons keeping the wolves at bay. The woman with daggers darted forward, her blades flashing in the sunlight as she danced around the snapping jaws.
Lyra hung back, her blade trembling in her grip. The whispers flooded her mind, fragments of thoughts and emotions that weren't her own. Fear, hunger, anger—all mingled with her own uncertainty. She couldn't afford to freeze, not now.
One of the wolves broke from the group, its eyes locking onto Lyra. It charged, snarling, and she barely had time to react. The whispers surged, guiding her movements. She sidestepped the wolf's attack and slashed at its flank, her blade connecting with a satisfying strike. The creature yelped but didn't go down, turning on her with renewed fury.
Lyra's pulse pounded as she fought, her strikes growing more precise with each passing moment. The whispers seemed to anticipate the wolf's movements, pushing her to dodge and counter with eerie accuracy. It felt as though she wasn't fighting alone—as though the voices were fighting with her.
But the whispers weren't just guiding her; they were pulling at her, demanding more. Each strike against the wolf fed their intensity, their presence in her mind swelling like a storm. Lyra gritted her teeth, struggling to stay in control as the wolf lunged again. This time, she ducked low and drove her blade into its chest, the creature collapsing with a final, pained growl.
She barely had time to catch her breath before another wolf came at her. This one was larger, its fur matted with blood. Lyra's muscles screamed in protest as she raised her blade, blocking its powerful jaws. The whispers roared, pushing her beyond her limits. She felt a surge of strength—not her own—as she shoved the wolf back and struck it down in one swift motion.
By the time the battle ended, Lyra was shaking. The wolves lay scattered around the clearing, their blood staining the forest floor. Jonas and the others were panting, their weapons slick with gore. Lyra forced herself to stand straight, hiding the tremor in her hands.
"Good work," Jonas said, nodding at her. "You've got skill, kid."
Lyra managed a weak smile. "Thanks."
As the group began to collect proof of their kills, Lyra knelt by one of the wolves she'd slain. The whispers were quieter now, but their presence lingered, heavy and insistent. She touched the edge of her armor, and a wave of exhaustion washed over her. The voices weren't satisfied. They wanted more.
"Lyra?" one of the spearmen called. "You okay?"
She stood quickly, brushing dirt from her knees. "Fine. Just... tired."
The walk back to the village was quiet. Lyra kept to herself, her thoughts racing. The whispers had helped her—there was no denying that—but they'd also pushed her to a place she wasn't sure she wanted to go. Each time she'd struck down a wolf, she'd felt a piece of it join the swirling storm inside her, its fear and anger becoming her own.
When they reached the village, the others parted ways with brief nods and tired smiles. Lyra slipped away before anyone could ask too many questions, heading for the small inn where she'd left Emmy.
Her sister greeted her with a hug, her bright smile a balm for Lyra's frayed nerves. "You're back! Did it go okay?"
"Yeah," Lyra said, ruffling Emmy's hair. "We got the wolves."
Emmy beamed. "I knew you could do it!"
Lyra forced a smile, hiding the turmoil beneath. As Emmy chatted about her day, Lyra touched the necklace around her neck, its cool metal grounding her. The whispers were still there, waiting, but for now, she pushed them aside.
She had survived the battle. But deep down, she knew this was only the beginning.