Draven led the way, his steps quiet but quick, like a predator. He didn't need to look back at her—he knew she was there, following him. She was doing her best to keep up, but his pace was brutal. Each time she thought she'd caught up, he moved faster.
Lyra forced herself to stay steady. She wasn't new to this, but with Draven as her shadow, it was like every instinct she had was being tested. He didn't give any encouragement, not even a glance. She was here to prove herself, not to get comfort or hand-holding.
"Keep up," he muttered without looking at her, his voice sharp, as though it was a command, not a suggestion. "Or I'll leave you behind."
She gritted her teeth and quickened her pace, pushing past the burning ache in her legs. She didn't need him to tell her how to move. She didn't need his judgment on every step she took. But she also knew better than to argue with him. Draven wasn't someone who took kindly to defiance.
They didn't speak much after that. It was all about the hunt now.
The path before them was dark and thick with trees and underbrush. Lyra's boots sank slightly into the ground with each step, the earth soft underfoot. Her senses were sharpened, every sound and scent amplified by the stillness around her. She could hear the wind through the leaves, distant animal calls, and the sharp scent of damp moss and fallen pine needles.
But what she was focusing on was the trail. It was faint but there—something had passed through this area recently. The smell of fur was still thick in the air, mingled with the scent of the earth. Lyra bent down to the ground, brushing her fingers over the dirt. It was cool to the touch, damp from the evening dew. She could feel the faint depressions in the ground where the animal had stepped, the subtle shifts in the soil.
She moved forward, following the trail as best as she could. She didn't need Draven to tell her where to go—she knew how to track. She was good at it.
Behind her, she could hear Draven's quiet steps, but she didn't look back. She could feel his gaze on her, like a weight pressing down on her shoulders. He was waiting for her to make a mistake, she knew that. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
The trail led them deeper into the forest, where the trees grew closer together, their branches intertwining above them like a canopy. It felt like they were walking through the bones of the earth, the shadows heavy and endless.
"Stop," Draven's voice came from behind her, quiet but firm.
Lyra froze, every muscle tensing. She didn't know what he was about to say, but she could already feel the familiar sting of judgment in the air. She turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, studying her every move.
"Can you smell it?" he asked, his voice low as if he were testing her. "The trail's fresher here. You're going the wrong way."
Lyra's throat tightened, the familiar frustration bubbling up. He wasn't even trying to help her. It wasn't about the hunt anymore—it was about him proving she wasn't good enough.
But instead of snapping at him, she took a deep breath, focusing again on the trail. The air was thick with the scent of something nearby, something larger than a deer. Her fingers flexed, and she crouched again, getting closer to the ground.
"I know what I'm doing," she said, her voice tight but controlled. She didn't care if Draven heard the edge in her tone. He'd just have to deal with it.
Draven didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His silence spoke louder than words ever could.
Lyra followed the trail deeper, ignoring the sudden prickle of unease running down her spine. Something about this didn't feel right. The forest was too still, too quiet. Even the wind had stopped.
She could hear her heartbeat, loud and steady in her ears. The animal was close—she could sense it. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her steps light. The brush was thicker now, the scent more potent.
Then, without warning, Draven's voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Stop."
She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Something wasn't right.
Draven moved past her, his body a dark shadow against the moonlit trees. His eyes were narrowed, scanning the area around them with the precision of someone who had hunted his entire life. But even he seemed… unsure.
"Something's off," he muttered to himself, not loud enough for her to hear, but she caught the tension in his voice. Draven never hesitated.
Lyra strained her ears, listening for the faintest sound, the rustle of leaves, a snap of a twig—anything. But there was nothing. It was as if the entire forest had gone quiet, waiting.
She felt it then—a shift in the air. A cold, heavy presence pressed down on her, almost suffocating. It was too still. Too quiet.
She turned to Draven, her instincts screaming at her to move. "We need to go. Now."
But Draven's eyes were fixed on something ahead, something beyond her line of sight. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tight. For the first time, she saw fear in his eyes.
"Run," he snapped, his voice low, urgent.
Lyra's heart raced as she took a step back, her gaze darting to the woods around them. But it was too late. Before she could even process what was happening, a low growl split the air—deep, rumbling, and primal.
The ground beneath her feet seemed to tremble, and before she could react, the air was filled with a blur of motion—a massive shape darting from the shadows.
Draven's body slammed into hers, throwing her to the ground. She gasped, the air knocked from her lungs, as she landed hard against the forest floor.
She looked up, eyes wide with terror, as the creature loomed over them—a monstrous wolf, larger than any Lyra had ever seen, its fur black as night and its eyes glowing with a cruel hunger.
It didn't growl. It didn't need to. Its eyes were enough. They locked onto Lyra, filled with ancient, terrible knowledge.
And in that moment, she realized something that sent a chill through her bones. This wasn't just any wolf. It was one of them.
It was one of the Alpha packs.