As the blackwood Thicket shut down. It wasn't simply the sound of wood against the frame, it was the sound of finality, a break from all she knew. The last sliver of sunlight, which had already pierced through the dense canopy outside, was entirely absorbed, plunging the room into an inky darkness that seemed to push in from all sides.
Lyra waited for a long time, allowing her eyes to adapt before her other senses took control. The air was dense with the aroma of moist dirt, decomposing wood, and something else a subtle, old stink that hinted at buried history. It was cold, a bone-deep frost piercing her threadbare garments, but she embraced it since it was genuine, as opposed to the hidden hate she'd left behind.
Slowly, her eyesight improved. The cabin was bigger than she expected from the exterior, with a single, roomy room. The walls were made of rough, unpolished wood and covered in what seemed to be dried muck and moss. An enormous stone fireplace dominated one wall, its chimney reaching into the nonexistent ceiling.
A rough-hewn wooden table and two seats were placed in the center. A cot, its straw mattress thin and uneven, was pushed into a corner and covered with a single, ripped blanket. Dust motes whirled in the few shafts of light that shone through the little, dirty windows high on the walls.
This was no guesthouse. This was an abandoned settlement, a forgotten outpost. Her new 'jail.'
She crept farther inside the cabin, her damaged side agonizing with each cautious step. Her fingertips brushed over the rough surface of the log walls, feeling the cold hardwood. She emphasized the structure's strength, which was designed to endure more than simply the weather. This cottage has a purpose and a history.
Her eyes moved across the room. In one corner, there was a little, poorly built cabinet with a slightly ajar wood door. Lyra pushed it open. To her amazement, it included the stuff Thorne had mentioned dried meats, hardtack bread, a few bags of dried fruit and roots, a small water skin, and some basic medical supplies like new bandages and a little jar of soothing balm. It was adequate for survival but nothing more. There are neither comforts nor pleasures.
A slight clink from farther within the wardrobe drew her attention. She reached in and wrapped her fingers around a little, velvety stone. It was dark, almost black, and chilly to the touch. As she grabbed it, a faint, almost undetectable hum echoed through her hand.
It wasn't the powerful, frenzied thrum of a mating connection but something older, wilder, and more distinctive. She was familiar with the experience. It was the same subtle tug she had felt from the stone circles in her last work. A relic. Perhaps someone put it here because they knew what it was used for.
She slipped the stone inside the pocket of her big tunic, a hidden touchstone in this bleak environment.
Her gaze fixated on the fire. It was barren, a stark reminder of the frost that had blanketed the land. However, there was a lovely pile of cut firewood outside the door, visible through the little, uncovered window next to it. Practicality. They wanted her to survive rather than succeed.
Lyra approached the fireplace, her attention fixed on the charred stones inside. She needed fire. Not just for warmth but also for light, a beacon of hope in this desolate edifice. She found a tinderbox and a flint in a little corner adjacent to the fire. She proceeded to construct a fire with careful motions, gradually adding kindling and smaller logs. Her hands, albeit being a touch feeble, moved with the natural precision of a soldier used to jungle survival.
As the first sparks caught and blazed to life, a slight metallic smell filled the air. Lyra paused and smelt. It felt delicate like ancient blood mingled with something else. Is there any chemical? She dismissed it as the odor of a long-unused fireplace, but a tinge of worry lingered.
The fire soon roared to life, creating swirling shadows on the rough-hewn walls and lifting some of the oppressive darkness. The warmth was a wonderful comfort, but it did not relieve her heart's cold loneliness.
She sat on one of the seats, observing the flickering flames. The sheer loneliness of the Blackwood Thicket weighed hard on her. There are no packmates, recognized odors, or distant growls. There is just the profound, whispering calm of the old woods. It was a wonderful silence, in sharp contrast to the continual, underlying buzz of pack life, which she had known her whole life.
The mating relationship. She grabbed for it instinctively, as she had always done in times of deep loneliness or loss. But there was nothing. There is just an echo of an echo. The acute anguish was no longer a new wound but rather an ongoing, soul-deep emptiness. It was the aching of an amputated limb, yet there was phantom agony.
She remembered Thorne's stern, unforgiving look. His arm was around Elara. Elara smiled proudly. The pain worsened, turning into a steely, burning determination. This misery and forced imprisonment would not kill her. It would sharpen her.
Yes, this was her jail. However, it was also a shield. Lyra could think, investigate, and prepare without the pack's continual attention or Elara's malevolent influence. Here, she could be herself, the warrior Luna, without rank but with determination.
She unrolled the little map she had drawn and set it on the table. The Blackwood Thicket was huge, and most pack members had not explored its center. Thorne mentioned "marked boundaries." She needed to discover and comprehend them. Were they magical? Physical? And what is beyond them?
She recalled Kael's words. "The spirits of the forest can be unkind to those who wander too far." The Thicket was thought to be haunted, either by old, restless spirits or especially hostile renegade tribes. But Lyra pondered. What if the "spirits" represented anything more? What if the Thicket contained not just lost magic but also forgotten beings?
Although the loneliness was unbearable, it also acted as a canvas. Lyra was no longer constrained by pack expectations, Thorne's authority, or Elara's cunning plans. She was free to discover, learn, and develop.
She drew Whispers of the Ancient Moon closer, the faded leather cover serving as a lifeline. This spot, this abandoned cottage, did not mark the end. It was the crucible.
Lyra felt a surge of excitement as the fire crackled, painting the cabin with changing patterns of light and shadow. It was a peculiar delight in the midst of loneliness. Her gloomy confinement would serve as her training ground. Her seclusion and strength.
She'd comprehend the Thicket. She would reveal the secrets. She would then use them to rescue her pack and demolish the illusions that had imprisoned them.
A beautiful, piercing sound resonated from just beyond the cabin walls. Not the wind. Not an animal. It sounded purposeful. A branch breaks. Somebody was out there.
Lyra froze, and her senses were immediately heightened. Her wolf, while feeble, bristled with primordial awareness. Have Garth and his companion returned? Or was it someone else? Someone who shouldn't be there. Someone knew where she was.
The metallic taste in the air, which had before been rejected, increased. It had become stronger and more pronounced. Like the smell of old, dried blood. And something else. Something unique.
Lyra switched off the light, returning the cabin to darkness, her hand reaching for the little, vibrating stone in her pocket. She gingerly slipped from the seat, resting against the chilly wood wall next to the doorway, her gaze locked on the little, dusty glass.
The tranquility had returned, but it was a strained and guarded silence. The firelight flashed and swirled over the walls, casting bizarre shadows that seemed to writhe and stretch.
The continue of a deep, guttural growl echoed from the darkness outside the cabin walls. It was deep, primal, and completely wild. Not a pack wolf. Not the average rogue. Something ancient. Something is hungry.
Lyra's wolf instincts detected danger. It was more than simply loneliness. This was an obvious threat. And she was completely, terrifyingly alone.