The scar

The first man Lyra killed that winter never understood why she was watching him.

He stood beneath the crooked lantern outside the tavern, laughing with two other wolves while the wind dragged thin ribbons of snow across the empty street. Their voices carried easily through the cold night, loudly. The way men sounded when they believed the world had no reason to turn against them. Lyra remained still in the shadows across the road, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she studied the crest stitched into the man’s collarbone.

Not Nightfang.

The disappointment settled deep inside her chest.

For a moment, she considered walking away, because killing strangers had never been the purpose of this long, vengeful, bitter hunt. She had spent two years chasing rumors across half the northern territories, two years following faint scents and broken trails that faded long before they led her to the pack she wanted.

Every road eventually ended the same way.

Another tavern.

Another wolf.

Another wrong crest.

The man tipped his head back with another burst of laughter while one of his companions slapped him hard on the shoulder. None of them noticed her standing across the street, the woman deciding whether their lives meant anything tonight.

Lyra pushed away from the wall and crossed the street.

The snow softened her footsteps. The wind carried the scent of woodsmoke from the tavern chimney. The three wolves continued their conversation until she stepped into the lantern’s circle of light.

The one with the crest looked at her first.

His grin faded instantly as his gaze traveled over the dark cloak, the hood hiding most of her face, the calmness in the way she stood there without speaking.

“Are you lost?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Lyra looked at the crest again.

Still not Nightfang.

The familiar ache stirred in her chest, sharp and hollow at the same time. Every time, she hoped the answer would be different. Every time she wanted the next man she met to carry the silver wolf of the pack that had burned Silvercrest.

Every time the answer was no.

Her hand moved before the thought finished forming.

He didn't hear the blade, only felt the cold intrusion between his ribs

His smile vanished, replaced by confusion. His mouth opened, but whatever words he meant to say dissolved into a thin, breathless sound as Lyra twisted the knife deeper.

He sagged against her.

One of the other wolves cursed and reached for the dagger at his belt.

Lyra ripped the blade free and shoved the dying man into him. Both of them stumbled backward while the third wolf lunged forward with a snarl that bared too many teeth.

He was larger than the others, the kind of man who believed strength alone could end a fight.

Lyra stepped forward to meet him.

Her elbow drove upward into his throat with brutal force. The crack of his cartilage echoed through the narrow alley as the air vanished from his lungs. He collapsed to his knees, clawing desperately at his neck while choking on his own breath.

The second wolf recovered quickly and rushed her with his dagger raised high, fury twisting his features into something ugly.

Lyra watched the movement calmly.

Rage made people predictable.

Grief made them reckless.

His blade never touched her.

Her knife slid across his throat in one smooth motion. The cut was deep enough that his next breath turned into a wet choking sound while blood spilled through his fingers.

He stared at her in disbelief.

Then he fell.

The alley went quiet.

Only the wind remained.

The wolf on his knees tried to crawl away.

Lyra grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him upright before pressing the edge of her blade against the side of his throat.

“Nightfang?” she asked quietly.

His eyes widened in terror.

“N-no,” he stammered.

The answer landed inside her like another stone.

Twenty-eight wolves dead in two years.

None of them were Nightfang.

Lyra slit his throat, and his body collapsed into the snow beside the others and lay still.

For several seconds, she didn’t move. The cold air brushed against her skin while the scent of blood spread slowly through the alley.

She looked down at the bodies around her boots.

None of them were the wolves she wanted.

None of them carried the silver crest of Nightfang.

Her fingers tightened around the knife.

The memory arrived without warning.

Fire tearing through the rooftops of Silvercrest.

The sound of wolves screaming in battle.

Her father’s wolf lying broken and lifeless beside the shattered fountain.

And the man standing in front of her, while the village burned behind him.

Kael Draven.

Lyra forced the memory away before it could tear open her old wound again. She wiped the blade against the dead man’s coat and slid it back into its sheath before pushing open the tavern door.

Warm air wrapped around her instantly.

The room buzzed with conversation while wolves crowded around rough wooden tables, their voices thick with drink and laughter. None of them noticed the blood drying slowly across her gloves as she moved through the noise.

Lyra reached the bar and placed a coin on the wood.

The bartender glanced up while polishing a glass.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Information.”

His eyes flicked down to the coin.

“What kind?”

“Nightfang.”

The rag in his hand stopped moving.

The nearest table fell silent.

The bartender leaned closer.

“You’re either brave,” he muttered quietly, “or stupid.”

Lyra met his gaze without blinking.

“Neither.”

He studied her face for a moment before sighing.

“Three days north,” he said. Forest past the mountains. That’s their territory now. Big land. Strong pack.”

Her pulse slowed.

Nightfang territory.

Closer than she expected.

“Their Alpha still rules there?” she asked.

The bartender gave a dry laugh.

“Kael Draven?” he said. “No one challenges him.”

The name slid through her chest like a blade.

For two years, she had imagined the moment she would see him again. Two years of sharpening grief into something colder, something precise enough to become a weapon.

“Does anyone cross their border?” she asked.

“Traders sometimes,” the bartender replied. “Only if they’re invited.”

“And if they’re not?”

He shrugged.

“They die.”

Lyra nodded.

That sounded exactly like the pack that destroyed her home.

She turned toward the door.

“Hey,” the bartender called.

Lyra paused.

“You planning to fight them?” he asked.

She lowered her hood slightly, letting the shadows hide her expression.

“No.”

The bartender frowned.

“Then what are you doing?”

Lyra opened the door and stepped back into the snow.

“I’m going to live among them.”

The wind swallowed her words as the door closed behind her.

The northern road stretched into darkness.

Somewhere beyond those mountains stood the pack that had burned Silvercrest to ash. Somewhere in that territory lived the Alpha who had watched her world collapse and then ordered her to run while everything she loved died behind her.

Lyra began walking.

If she crossed that border, there would be no turning back.

Nightfang wolves would smell that she didn’t belong. They would test her loyalty. They would watch her for weakness.

And if any of them discovered the truth,

The last wolf of Silvercrest would die in their territory.

Snow drifted through the night as she disappeared into the storm.

Three days.

Three days until she stepped into the pack that destroyed her life.

Three days until she saw Kael Draven again.

She had spent two years preparing for that moment.

This time, she would not run.

Far to the north, deep inside Nightfang territory,

Alpha Kael Draven slowly lifted his head from the war table while the wolves around him fell silent.

Something had crossed the edge of his lands.

At first, the scent was faint.

Smoke.

Ash.

And something older.

His wolf surged forward inside his chest with a sudden, violent recognition.

Kael went still.

Impossible.

That scent belonged to a girl who should have died in the fire.

His hand closed slowly around the edge of the table.

“Find her,” he said quietly.

Because somewhere in the darkness of his territory, the ghost of Silvercrest had just returned.