Chapter Two: The Price of Survival

Cold dragged Aira back to consciousness.

It crept into her bones, stiffened her fingers, and burned against the raw skin of her palms. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the ache in her ankle pulsed sharply, and memory crashed over her all at once the platform, the rejection, the elder’s voice, the guards’ hands reaching for her.

She sucked in a shaky breath and forced herself to sit up.

The forest was quiet.

Too quiet.

Morning light filtered through the canopy in thin silver lines. Dew clung to the leaves, soaking the hem of her torn dress. Aira scanned her surroundings slowly, her heart pounding. No howls. No voices. No movement except the sway of branches in the breeze.

They hadn’t followed her at dawn.

Yet.

She tried to stand and nearly cried out as pain shot through her ankle. Gritting her teeth, she leaned against the fallen log and tested her weight carefully. It held but barely.

“I can do this,” she whispered, though doubt trembled beneath the words.

She had to.

Aira tore a strip from the bottom of her dress and wrapped it tightly around her ankle, tying it off with shaking fingers. It wasn’t much, but it would keep the swelling down enough to walk.

Each step sent pain flaring up her leg as she limped forward, deeper into unfamiliar territory. She didn’t dare follow any path. Paths were watched.

Her stomach twisted not from hunger, but from fear.

The child.

She pressed her palm gently against her abdomen, as if reassurance could be passed through skin and bone. She had sensed the pregnancy days ago but had told no one. In the Lower Pack, pregnancies were reported immediately, logged, monitored.

Controlled.

She had waited, hoping foolishly that Rovan would protect her.

A bitter laugh escaped her throat.

She should have known better.

By midday, exhaustion weighed heavily on her. Her ankle throbbed violently, and her vision swam as she pushed through underbrush. When she finally stumbled into a small clearing, she collapsed to her knees.

The smell of smoke made her freeze.

Human smoke.

Aira crawled forward, peering through the trees. A small hut sat at the edge of the clearing, crooked but intact. Smoke drifted lazily from a stone chimney. Someone lived here.

Help could mean safety.

Help could also mean betrayal.

She hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to turn back. But the thought of guards closing in, of steel and orders whispered in the dark, pushed her forward.

She limped toward the hut.

Before she could knock, the door creaked open.

An old woman stood there, bent with age, her sharp eyes assessing Aira in a single glance from her torn dress to her injured ankle to the fear she hadn’t been able to hide.

“You’re running,” the woman said simply.

Aira swallowed. “Please. I won’t stay long.”

The woman studied her for a moment longer, then stepped aside. “You won’t survive another day like this.”

Relief nearly buckled Aira’s knees.

Inside, the hut was warm and smelled of herbs. The woman guided her to a rough wooden chair and knelt without being asked, gently unwrapping the cloth around her ankle.

“Wolves?” the woman asked.

Aira nodded.

“Rejected?”

Another nod.

The woman’s mouth tightened. “Cruel law.”

As the woman worked, binding her ankle properly with salve that burned and soothed all at once, Aira’s body finally betrayed her. Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and unstoppable.

“I won’t give him up,” she whispered hoarsely.

The woman paused. “Give who up?”

Aira’s hand moved instinctively to her stomach. “My child.”

The old woman followed the gesture, her eyes softening. “Then you’ll need more than luck.”

She stood and handed Aira a bowl of broth. “Eat. Then you’ll listen.”

Aira took the bowl with trembling hands.

“Listen to what?” she asked.

The woman’s gaze flicked toward the forest, dark and watchful beyond the small window.

“How to disappear,” she replied.