The Girl Who Survived

Lyra's POV

"Run!" My mother's terrified scream shattered the silence of our home.

I was only eight years old.

Our mansion stood on top of a hill overlooking the city below. It had always felt untouchable, hidden behind towering pine trees and surrounded by acres of private land. My father used to tell me no one could ever reach us there.

He had been wrong.

The walls trembled as another deafening crash echoed through the house. Glass shattered. Furniture splintered. Terrifying growls reverberated through every hallway.

Wolves. They were inside our home.

My father burst into my bedroom, his clothes stained with blood. Without a word, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the hallway.

"Dad..." My voice trembled. "What's happening?"

"Don't let go of my hand," he said urgently.

Another roar shook the entire mansion. Then I heard my mother's scream. We hurried downstairs and found her struggling toward us. One hand supported her swollen stomach while the other held onto the railing for balance.

She was eight months pregnant with my twin brothers.

Her face was pale, her breathing uneven, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

"They're everywhere," she cried.

Father immediately wrapped an arm around her and guided us toward the back entrance.

"We have to get out of here. Now."

The moment he threw the back door open, the cold night air rushed over us.

We ran.

Branches whipped against my face as we hurried down the wooded hillside behind our home. My small legs struggled to keep up, but Father never loosened his grip on my hand.

When we reached an ancient oak tree, he suddenly stopped.

His hands trembled as he knelt before me and gripped my shoulders.

"Don't come out," he whispered urgently. "No matter what happens, stay here."

"Dad..."

"Promise me."

Before I could answer, a heart-wrenching scream tore through the forest.

My mother.

It wasn't just a cry for help. It was a scream filled with terror, pain, and desperation, the kind that made my blood run cold.

Father's expression shattered. Without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the sound.

I peeked around the tree.

Everything happened so fast.

Several wolves surrounded my parents.

Then, the forest fell unnaturally silent. A massive black wolf stepped out from the darkness. It was larger than every wolf surrounding it. Its midnight-black fur blended into the night itself.

One eye burned a deep crimson red. The other glowed with an eerie shade of violet. Every wolf lowered its head the moment it appeared.

As though they answered only to him. The black wolf lunged. Its claws ripped through my father's chest as though he weighed nothing at all.

Blood splattered across the fallen leaves before he collapsed to the ground without making another sound.

"Dad!" My cry never reached him.

Before I could run to him, a strong hand suddenly covered my mouth. I gasped in terror as a pair of weathered arms pulled me behind the thick trunk of the ancient oak. I struggled wildly, kicking and clawing at the stranger, but he only held me tighter.

"Shh," an old man's trembling voice whispered beside my ear. "Please... don't make a sound."

I froze.

I had never seen him before.

His long silver hair framed a face lined with age, and his rough hands shook as he shielded me behind his body. Tears streamed silently down his weathered cheeks, yet his eyes never left the clearing ahead.

Confused and terrified, I followed his gaze.

My mother had reached my father's side. She dropped to her knees beside him, cradling his lifeless body as desperate sobs escaped her lips.

"No... please..." she cried. "Please wake up."

The massive black wolf slowly approached, its crimson and violet eyes glowing beneath the moonlight with a cold, merciless intensity.

My mother looked up, instinctively wrapping both arms around her swollen stomach, as though she could still protect the two babies growing inside her.

"Please..." she begged through broken sobs.

The beast didn't hesitate. It lunged. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was too late. My mother's scream echoed through the forest before suddenly falling silent.

Tears blurred my vision as I buried my face against the old man's chest, my entire body trembling.

His grip around me tightened. He never let me look away. But he never let me run toward them either.

"No!"  I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air.

My chest rose and fell violently as sweat drenched my body. My fingers clutched the thin blanket beneath me so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

For several long seconds, I couldn't tell where I was. Everything still felt terrifyingly real.

I pressed a trembling hand against my chest and forced myself to breathe, but my heart refused to slow down.

It wasn't a dream. It never had been. It was the memory that had haunted me every single night for the past ten years.

Closing my eyes only made it worse. My father's lifeless body. My mother's desperate screams. The enormous black wolf standing over them with blood dripping from its jaws.

And those horrible eyes. Even after all these years, I could still see them. Still remember what it felt like to be a helpless eight-year-old girl hiding behind a tree while her entire world was torn apart.

I swallowed hard before slowly turning toward the window.

The first rays of dawn spilled across the small cabin, bathing the room in pale golden light. Outside, the forest looked calm and beautiful.

But I knew better. Sometimes peace was nothing more than a beautiful lie. The forest had looked peaceful that night too. Until it took everything from me.

I pushed the blanket away and sat on the edge of the bed. My bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, and I shivered, though I knew it had nothing to do with the cold.

No sleep. Only nightmares. A constant reminder of the reason I refused to give up.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stared at my hands. They were still shaking.

Every nightmare left me trapped in the past, turning me back into that frightened little girl and forcing me to remember how powerless I had been that night.

I had done nothing but hide, cry, and survive, and sometimes surviving felt like its own kind of punishment.

My gaze shifted toward the small wooden table near my bed. A single candle had burned out sometime during the night. Beside it was the small silver dagger my grandfather had given me when I turned twelve.

I reached for it and wrapped my fingers around the handle. The familiar weight calmed me a little.

"Never be defenseless again," Grandpa had told me the first time he placed it in my hands.

And I hadn't been. Not since then.

Today was my eighteenth birthday. Most girls my age would probably be celebrating, eating cake, spending time with friends, and opening gifts, but I let out a quiet, bitter laugh because birthdays had lost their meaning to me a long time ago, ever since the wolf took everything from me.

I stood and grabbed my training clothes from the chair. The fabric was already worn from years of use, but it was comfortable enough for running, fighting, and falling to the ground whenever Grandpa decided I was being too slow.

Which was often.

I changed quickly, tied my hair back, and splashed cold water on my face from the basin near the window. When I looked at my reflection, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.

Deep hazel-brown eyes. A pale face. A scar near my left shoulder from one of Grandpa's brutal training sessions.

I looked far more mature than any eighteen-year-old should, as though grief and revenge had aged me beyond my years.

I grabbed my bow, my quiver, and the dagger before stepping outside.

The cool morning air greeted me the moment I left the cabin. It smelled like damp earth, pine trees, and smoke from the fire Grandpa had probably started before sunrise.

The forest around our small home was still wrapped in mist. Birds chirped somewhere above the trees. Leaves rustled softly with the wind.

"You're late." My grandfather said.

I rolled my eyes. Somehow my grandfather always knew exactly when I woke up.

He stood in the middle of the clearing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking as stern and unimpressed as ever. His silver hair was tied at the back of his neck, and even at his age, he still looked stronger than most men I had seen in the village.

As usual, Grandpa was already waiting for me. "Good morning to you too," I greeted him.

"It would have been," Grandpa replied without looking up, "if you weren't ten minutes late."

I groaned and rubbed the back of my neck. "I just woke up."

"You've been using that excuse for ten years."

"I've only been eighteen for five minutes."

The corner of Grandpa's lips twitched, almost forming a smile before disappearing just as quickly. With Grandpa, that was already enough to count as a celebration.

He studied me for a long moment, and something strange flickered across his eyes. It vanished almost immediately, but not before I caught it.

Sadness.

My grip around the bow tightened.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," Grandpa answered.

"You're lying."

"I trained you too well," he muttered.

"Yes. Unfortunately for you."

Grandpa ignored my remark and nodded toward the row of targets lined up between the trees.

"Position."

I released a slow breath before walking to my usual spot.

Training began the same way it always did. There were no warm greetings, no birthday wishes, and certainly no soft words. There was only discipline, focus, and pain. Grandpa believed softness could get a person killed.

After everything I’d lost, I knew he was right.