The world was soft and blurry when Lyra awoke. The first thing she noticed was the smell—a strange blend of herbs and damp earth, with a faint undercurrent of something sharp and metallic. Her head ached, and her limbs felt heavy, like she had been pulled down into the earth and spat back out.
She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was no longer in the cursed forest's oppressive embrace but inside a dimly lit hut. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by a single flickering candle. Shelves lined with jars of peculiar substances—dried herbs, powders, and unidentifiable preserved creatures—occupied every inch of the space.
Her heart jumped in her chest.
"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"You're where you need to be," a raspy voice replied.
Lyra's gaze snapped to the corner of the room. There, seated in a creaking rocking chair, was a figure cloaked in a tattered shawl. The woman—if she could be called that—looked ancient, her skin a patchwork of deep wrinkles and scars. Her eyes, however, were a sharp and unsettling green, gleaming with a light that seemed far too alive for her withered form.
Lyra scrambled to sit up, but a sharp pang in her ribs forced her back down. The woman chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind.
"Careful, child," she said, her bony fingers weaving together in her lap. "The forest doesn't let you leave unscathed, even if it spares you."
"Who… who are you?" Lyra managed, her voice trembling. "What do you want from me?"
The woman tilted her head, her expression almost amused. "What do I want? Oh, child, you've stumbled into my domain. The question is, what do you want?"
Lyra stared at her, confusion and fear swirling in her mind. She clenched the blanket covering her, her knuckles whitening. "I don't understand…"
The woman sighed and rose from her chair with surprising grace for someone so old. Her movements were slow but deliberate as she approached Lyra.
"You came here because you couldn't bear the weight of your shame," she said, her voice softening slightly. "The cursed forest calls to those who have nowhere else to go. But unlike most, you didn't run from death—you ran toward it."
Lyra flinched at the words, her mind flashing back to the whispers, the shadows, and the haunting visions. She had wanted to disappear, to escape everything and everyone who had turned their backs on her. But hearing it spoken aloud made her feel exposed, vulnerable.
"I didn't have a choice," she muttered, her gaze dropping to the floor.
The woman crouched before her, her piercing green eyes locking onto Lyra's. "You always have a choice, child. You just didn't like the options."
Lyra opened her mouth to retort, but the words caught in her throat. The woman wasn't wrong. She had fled not because she couldn't fight back, but because she didn't believe she was strong enough to face the pack's judgment—or Darius's rejection.
"Who are you?" Lyra asked again, more firmly this time.
The woman smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp for comfort. "Morrigan," she said simply. "And you, Lyra of Lunaris, have a storm brewing within you that you don't yet understand."
Lyra's breath hitched. "How do you know my name?"
Morrigan chuckled, standing and turning toward one of the shelves. "The forest tells me many things. It whispers of those who wander too close, of the pain they carry, of the secrets they hide." She plucked a small jar from the shelf and shook it lightly. The contents—a silvery powder—glimmered in the candlelight.
"I don't believe in witchcraft," Lyra said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her doubt.
Morrigan glanced at her over her shoulder, her sharp smile returning. "Oh, you will."
---
The witch set the jar down and turned back to Lyra, her expression growing serious. "The Alpha's rejection hurt you, yes?"
Lyra's jaw tightened. She didn't trust this strange woman, but the mention of Darius brought a fresh wave of bitterness bubbling to the surface. "What do you think?"
Morrigan nodded slowly, as if she had expected the answer. "His rejection was cruel, but it was necessary. Without it, you would have lived your life in his shadow, never realizing the power that lies within you."
Lyra blinked. "Power? What power? I'm wolfless."
The words tasted bitter on her tongue, the label like a brand seared into her skin.
Morrigan's laugh was sharp and sudden, startling Lyra. "Wolfless? Child, do you truly believe that?" She shook her head, her green eyes flashing. "You are anything but."
Lyra stared at her, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—igniting in her chest. "What are you talking about?"
The witch stepped closer, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "The blood of the moon runs through your veins. It has been dormant, suppressed by the expectations of others, but it's there. I can feel it."
Lyra shook her head, confusion and skepticism warring within her. "That's impossible. I've never shown any sign of…"
"Because you've been caged," Morrigan interrupted sharply. "Your entire life, you've been told who you are, what you can be, and what you're worth. And you believed them." She leaned in closer, her voice softening. "But deep down, you've always known you were meant for more."
Lyra's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to dismiss the witch's words as nonsense, but she couldn't. There had always been a small, stubborn part of her that dreamed of being more than what the pack saw her as.
"How… how do you know all this?" Lyra asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Morrigan smiled and reached into the folds of her shawl, pulling out a small, glowing moonstone. The light it emitted was soft and pale, yet it seemed to fill the room with a warmth that chased away the lingering chill.
"This," Morrigan said, holding the stone out to Lyra, "is a gift and a burden. It will guide you when you are lost, but it will not give you the answers. Those, you must find on your own."
Lyra hesitated, staring at the stone. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Hold it close," Morrigan said. "When the time comes, you'll know."
The cryptic answer frustrated Lyra, but she reached out and took the stone. It was surprisingly warm in her palm, and the moment she touched it, she felt a faint pulse, like a heartbeat.
Morrigan's expression turned grave. "Your path will not be easy, child. You will face pain, betrayal, and trials that will test every fiber of your being. But if you embrace who you truly are, you will rise stronger than anyone dares to imagine."
Lyra swallowed hard, the weight of the witch's words settling over her. "And if I don't?"
Morrigan's smile faded, and for the first time, Lyra saw a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "Then you will fall, as many have before you."
---
The witch stepped back, her sharp gaze lingering on Lyra. "Leave this place. Return when you are ready to claim your destiny."
Lyra opened her mouth to protest, to demand answers, but the words died on her lips. The warmth of the moonstone in her hand was a reminder of the truth she couldn't yet face.
She stood, her legs still shaky but her resolve growing stronger. She didn't know what awaited her outside the forest, but one thing was certain: she couldn't go back to the life she had left behind.
"Thank you," she said quietly, though the words felt inadequate.
Morrigan nodded but said nothing, her gaze unreadable.
As Lyra stepped out of the hut and into the forest once more, the whispers and shadows seemed less daunting. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, she felt a spark of hope.
And she would cling to that spark, no matter what lay ahead.