Whispers in the Wood

The forest never slept. Even in stillness, it pulsed with ancient energy—wild, restless, and eternal. Trees stood like silent sentinels, their canopies clawing at the sky, veiling the stars. The moon hovered like a silver eye above the world, watching. Waiting.

And beneath it all, Lyra Blackthorn ran. Her breath fanned in soft clouds, chest heaving as she darted between trees. Her black cloak billowed behind her, mist curling at the hem. Moss and roots kissed her bare feet, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t afraid of thorns. She had grown among them.

This part of the woods had long been forbidden by her pack—neutral ground between rival territories. A place soaked in the blood of a forgotten war. But tonight, something called to her from the silence. Something more primal than instinct. Something older than the moon itself. A scent.

Not human. Not fully wolf.

It was smoke and spice. Power and ruin.

She stopped near a ridge overlooking the valley below. The river shimmered like molten silver in the moonlight, winding between jagged rocks. Her emerald eyes scanned the dark, and her heart slowed to a predator’s pace. Whatever it was… it wasn’t natural.

The mark on her collarbone—the crescent scar she had hidden since birth—burned faintly against her skin.

She was being watched.

Her hand slid to the blade strapped to her thigh, a ceremonial dagger forged from silver and obsidian. Wind whistled through the trees, stirring her hair like a lover’s fingers. She crouched lower, letting her senses sharpen.

Then—a snap. A crack of a branch behind her. Lyra spun, blade drawn, eyes glowing faintly with her wolf’s light. But it wasn’t a monster that stepped from the trees.

It was him.

Kael Thornwyn.

Her breath caught. Not from fear—never from fear—but from fury. From memory. From hate.

He moved like shadow incarnate—tall, broad-shouldered, with hair as dark as pitch and eyes like gold melted in flame. Even under the moonlight, there was something unholy in the way he stood, in the effortless grace that made her stomach twist with something she refused to name.

The Thornwyn heir. Prince of her father’s enemies.

The son of the man who had killed her brother.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice cut through the silence like frost on glass.

Kael’s lips curved into something dangerous—half amusement, half warning. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that, little Blackthorn? You’re far from home.”

Her grip on the dagger tightened. “This is neutral ground. You’re trespassing.”

“Not anymore,” he said, taking a step forward.

Her heartbeat spiked. Her wolf surged beneath her skin, begging to tear, to shift, to fight.

But Kael didn’t attack.

He studied her with that maddening calm, his golden gaze flicking across her face, lingering at her collarbone as if he could sense what lay beneath the fabric. Lyra’s hand trembled just once. She hated that he noticed.

“You smell different tonight,” he said quietly, voice velvet and smoke. “Like fire… and secrets.”

“Back off.”

He tilted his head, that same crooked smirk returning. “You always draw your blade before you speak. Charming.”

“I’d rather draw blood.”

“Tempting.” He closed the distance between them in a breath. One moment he stood yards away, the next—he was inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Her back hit a tree, the bark rough beneath her cloak. His hand pinned her wrist above her head, not cruelly, but firmly. Possessively.

“I should kill you,” she whispered.

“I know.” His voice dropped lower. “But you won’t.”

Her pulse throbbed in her throat. She hated that her body didn’t recoil. Hated the electric tension between them, the way his scent curled around her like a chain. Her wolf didn’t want to retreat. It wanted to understand him.

“I know what your family did,” she snapped. “I know what you did.”

His gaze darkened. “Do you?”

“I saw your father at Blood Valley. I saw what he did to my brother.”

A muscle ticked in Kael’s jaw. For a brief moment, something fractured in his expression—regret, maybe. Pain. Then it was gone.

“Your version of that night is a story you were told,” he murmured. “But stories lie, Lyra. Ask your Alpha. Ask your father what really happened.”

She flinched. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” He leaned in closer, his breath brushing her cheek. “Or are you afraid of the truth?”

The wind shifted. A howl pierced the stillness—a long, mournful cry carried from the west. Urgent. Warning.

Lyra jerked away, and Kael let her go without resistance.

“You should go,” he said, voice suddenly grave. “Something’s coming. Something worse than either of us.”

She hesitated, heart pounding. “Why warn me?”

He stepped back into the shadows. “Because I want you alive. When the time comes, you’ll understand why.”

And then—he was gone. No footsteps. No scent trail. Just mist.

Lyra stared into the empty woods, blood roaring in her ears. What had he meant? Why now? And what had he seen that she hadn’t?

She turned and ran. The forest blurred around her, branches clawing at her skin. She didn’t stop until the walls of the Blackthorn estate loomed before her—tall, gray, and ancient.

But something was wrong.

The gates stood ajar. The guards—two of the best warriors in her pack—were slumped unconscious beside the iron posts. Her stomach dropped.

She crossed the threshold cautiously, dagger ready. The courtyard was too quiet. No voices. No footsteps. No scent of her father.

Then she saw it.

Pinned to the heavy oak door of the manor, a single white rose.

Its petals were pristine, untouched by blood or dust. But she knew what it meant.

A Thornwyn mark.

A warning. A declaration.

A claim.

“No…” she whispered, reaching for the rose with shaking hands.

There was something tucked behind it—a folded scrap of parchment, sealed with the Thornwyn crest. She tore it open, her eyes scanning the message.

Four words.

We always take back what’s ours.