Chapter 5

The forest was quiet that afternoon, the usual hum of life muted by the thick, heavy air that came before a storm. Lyra walked along a narrow path, her senses on high alert. She had grown used to the wilderness and its many moods, but something about the stillness today set her on edge. Her wolf stirred uneasily, urging her to be cautious.

She adjusted the small bag slung over her shoulder and continued forward, her eyes scanning the trees for any sign of movement. The dense canopy above cast long shadows on the ground, and the faint scent of rain lingered in the breeze. Lyra had learned to trust her instincts since leaving the pack—they were often the only thing standing between her and danger.

It wasn't long before she found the source of her unease. A low, pained whimper reached her ears, faint but unmistakable. Lyra froze, her heart quickening as she strained to pinpoint the sound. It was close, just beyond the cluster of trees ahead. She crept forward, her footsteps silent on the forest floor.

The sight that greeted her was enough to make her stomach churn. A large wolf lay sprawled in the dirt, its fur matted with blood and its chest rising and falling in labored breaths. It wasn't a wild wolf; the telltale signs of a pack wolf were clear—the sturdy build, the faint scent of others clinging to its coat. Lyra's first instinct was to turn away. Pack wolves were dangerous, and she had no way of knowing which pack this one belonged to.

But as she watched the wolf struggle to lift its head, a surge of empathy overwhelmed her. She knew what it felt like to be broken, to be alone and vulnerable. Her wolf growled softly in her mind, urging her to help. Before she could second-guess herself, Lyra stepped closer.

"Easy," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The wolf's ears twitched, and its amber eyes locked onto hers, filled with both pain and wariness. Lyra knelt beside it, her movements slow and deliberate. She could see the gash along its side now, deep and jagged, as if it had been attacked by something with sharp claws.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she murmured, reaching out a hand. The wolf flinched but didn't pull away. Lyra's fingers brushed against its fur, and she felt the tremble of its body beneath her touch.

She glanced around, searching for anything that might help. Her bag held a few basic supplies, but nothing that could properly treat a wound this severe. Desperation clawed at her as she looked back at the wolf. If she didn't do something soon, it wouldn't survive.

"Hold on," she said, more to herself than to the wolf. She pressed her hands against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. The wolf growled weakly, its muscles tensing beneath her grip. Lyra closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm.

And then, something extraordinary happened.

A strange warmth began to spread through her hands, subtle at first but growing stronger with each passing moment. Lyra's eyes flew open in surprise, but she didn't pull her hands away. The warmth wasn't coming from the wolf—it was coming from her. It flowed through her palms like a gentle current, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

"What...?" she whispered, her voice shaking. The wolf let out a soft whine, its body relaxing as the warmth grew stronger. Lyra could feel it now, a connection between her and the injured creature, as if their very lifeblood was intertwined. The gash beneath her hands began to knit itself together, the torn flesh mending with an almost imperceptible glow.

Lyra's breath caught in her throat as she watched the wound close, leaving only a faint scar behind. The wolf's breathing steadied, its eyes losing the haze of pain. It blinked at her, and for a moment, Lyra could have sworn it nodded in gratitude.

She sat back on her heels, her hands trembling as she stared at them. "What just happened?" she murmured. Her mind raced with questions, but there were no answers—only the lingering warmth in her palms and the undeniable proof of what she had just done.

The wolf slowly got to its feet, testing its legs before turning to look at her. Lyra expected it to run, to vanish into the woods without a second thought. But instead, it stepped closer, its nose brushing against her arm in a gesture that felt almost like thanks. And then, without a sound, it slipped into the shadows and was gone.

Lyra sat there for what felt like hours, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. She had always known she was different, but this...this was something else entirely. Healing wasn't a gift that werewolves possessed—not like this. It was something out of legend, a power long forgotten.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Lyra finally stood, her mind still spinning. Whatever had happened to her, it was undeniable: she was more than she had ever realized. And though the path ahead was uncertain, one thing was clear—she could no longer see herself as the broken wolf who had left her pack behind.

She was something more.