Claimed by the Lycan King
The School of Light had become a second home to her, its halls filled with the laughter of students and the wisdom of the ancestors.
One evening, as the sun set in a blaze of gold and pink, painting the sky in colors that seemed to hold the very essence of hope, Lyra sat in the garden with her granddaughter, a young healer named Aria, named after her great-grandmother. The ancient oak tree stood tall and strong, its branches reaching toward the sky like arms raised in blessing. The air was filled with the scent of roses and lavender, the gentle hum of bees, the distant song of birds. The garden was quiet, the flowers resting, the trees standing in silent witness.
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