Lyra Silverfang's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Lyra Silverfang stood at the forest edge, counting the trees she could not see. Her caravan was gone. The others had rolled on without her, and now a storm swept down off the dark hills toward her. She wanted inside the forest, where the trees would block the wind. But the cold reached her first. It cut through her coat and turned her fingers stiff. She knew the danger. Enter now, and the cold would drop her before she found shelter. She would freeze among the trees, lost and alone. Wait outside, and the open wind would do the same. Sleet began to fall. Lyra made her choice. She pulled her coat tight and stepped under the first branches. Inside, the wind died. The trees held it back, just as she hoped. But the dark pressed close, and she could not tell one path from another. She walked. Snow hissed in the canopy above. Her feet found roots and stones she could not see. Soon she had no idea which way she had come. She was lost, exactly as she had feared. A twig snapped behind her. Lyra spun around. Nothing. Only black trunks and falling snow. She turned to go forward and froze. A werewolf stood in her path. He was huge, taller than any man, his fur dark and wet. His clothes hung in torn strips across his chest. Yellow eyes caught what little light there was. His breath steamed between long teeth. Lyra ran. She crashed through branches, not caring where they led. Behind her came heavy steps, fast and closing. Then weight slammed into her back. She hit the snow. Claws pinned her shoulders. She shut her eyes and waited for the end. "Marcus! Down, boy!" A woman's voice cut through the storm. The weight lifted at once. Lyra rolled over, gasping. The werewolf backed away, head low, obeying like a scolded dog. A woman walked out of the shadows. She was young, with long black hair and pale skin, wearing a dark dress stitched with silver thread. Snow did not seem to touch her. She looked at Lyra with calm eyes, the way a person looks at a stray found on the road. "Are you alright?" the woman asked. Lyra pushed herself up, shaking. "You control that thing?" "His name is Marcus." The woman held out a hand. "I'm Renee. You shouldn't be out here. The storm will kill you long before he would." Lyra stared at the offered hand. She had no caravan, no path, and no way to survive the cold alone. The witch and her werewolf were the only warmth in the whole forest. She took the hand. Renee pulled her up and smiled. "Good. Then follow me. But understand something first." Her grip tightened. "No one who comes to my home leaves it the same." Lyra had escaped the storm. Now she walked into something worse, and she had already said yes.