Vyra

Hushed whispers roused me from my involuntary slumber, forcing me to lift my heavy head.

Adjusting slowly to the dark, I found myself sitting at a long table, surrounded by candlelight and various ink-drawn maps. This cave-like space was likely the pack's war-room.

Mena was rattling off about something to my left, as Titus argued with her from across the table. Seren was stationed at the opposite end from me.

His steps halted, eyes snapping up to meet mine with an unsettling awareness.

Fatis Amare.

Hah. I definitely hit my head. It was definitely not a ghostly version of his voice sending those words into my head.

Speaking of which, the pounding in it increased. My face throbbed, and ribs ached.

Looking down at myself, I was adorned with a simple black blouse and loose pants several sizes too big. Feeling my cheek, and the lack of blood pouring from my torso, someone decided to stitch me up already.

My face burned, my eyes piercing Seren back.

I'm never fainting again.

"Sonya dressed you. I taught her how to stitch." Seren blurted out a little too loudly, his hands behind his back. His friends stopped in the middle of their argument. It seemed irrelevant, but it meant a lot to me.

"Thank you."

Seren breathed deeply, his eyes nearly blinding in the dim room. If I didn't feel like shit, I'd laugh at the look on his face.

I hadn't thanked him since...he put my hair up for me?

He shook his head, clearing his throat, "it was Cyrus."

Well who-fucking-else?

Being someone of little significance had its advantages. The list of people who cared enough to assassinate me was small.

"Yes," I dead-panned, rubbing circles into my temples, "do you know for sure?"

The council hadn't been too keen to follow Seren's suggestion of execution, even with the evidence injected into their minds.

Mena swiveled, jaw tight. "We followed them into the woods. Their scents disappeared halfway to the river."

She seemed more annoyed that they were able to evade her, rather than the attempt on my life.

An arrow went skidding across on the table, along with a crumpled piece of parchment.

"Read it." Grumbled Seren, voice iron as he clenched his jaw, hands fisted by his sides. He stared at the arrow like it'd jump up and bite him.

Stretching across the table with my good side, I carefully unfolded the note.

"Non quiescam in vindictam donec luna sanguinat?"

Unfamiliar with this form of Latin, I waited to be told what omen was coming for me.

"Vengeance will not rest until the moon bleeds." Titus answered, disturbed. He looked at me like I was someone worth protecting. "He's making a claim on your life as repentance for his exile."

We're friends, aren't we? I'd made jokes, but now all I felt was guilt.

Titus was just another person who would miss me when I was gone.

The corner of my mouth lifted, pulling the tight stitching on my cheek. "He should get in line."

"This isn't a joke." He said softly.

"I know that." Biting my lip, I wished to get rid of the pity that consumed the guard's face. "He will not have the satisfaction he wants from taking my life."

"My sentiments exactly." Seren's smooth timbre interrupted, wrangling my attention to him. "Your death is mine."

Goosebumps rose along my flesh. I rubbed my arms, hoping to wipe away the effect his macabre sweet-nothings had on me.

Steeling myself for rejection, I stared into each of the Lycan. "I need more lessons, tell the other Lycan to use the other clearing to train."

Some of the pain dwindled, and what was left was the adrenaline. This prick tried to kill me twice, and he wasn't even my main concern. He was an ego-tistical nuisance.

My arms could barely lift, my entire body aching. I loathed the skin that refused to bleed, that would carry Cyrus's mark.

I would be vulnerable no longer.

Seren placed his hand steady on the table."You've barely even healed—"

"I need longer hours. Real fighting. Mind-speak. Shifting at night. Everything." I lifted myself from my seat, showing that I could do it.

Even if it pained me.

Seren stared at me for a few, long moments. His silver eyes, a rainy day. "You're not ready."

I wasn't ready to be thrown into this mess. And here I was.

An Outcast, but not. An heir that never would be.

Fight, if not only because they expect you to surrender.

"I don't have a choice. I just have to be."

Seren caved from our stand-off first. Titus was smiling now, which was much better than his sadness.

Mena looked me up and down, arms crossed. Attempting to hide the small amount of begrudging approval that tainted her expression. "Too afraid to live. Too afraid to die."

That is what I would no longer be, caught in the perpetual web of my existence.

Too afraid to live. Too afraid to die.

***

"You're bleeding." Mena pointed out monotonously.

I sat on the ground near the edge of the training clearing, trying to catch my breath.

She didn't look tired at all.

"It will happen. More often than not." Rubbing my cheek, I cleared some of the blood away. One of the stitches snapped.

Mena had taken my plea seriously. We've been training before dawn, before even Titus or Seren arrived on the field.

I'd been surprised by the knock on my door early this morning, but I would have been an idiot not to take her offer.

Even though I knew her intentions weren't pure.

With my back turned to her, her sigh felt heavy. I curled up further when she sat down beside me in the thawing grass, leaning with her hands behind her back.

"I'm tired too." She conceded. My head swiveled, glaring. Did she look into my mind without permission? Her laugh was stiff, short. "Relax. Your resentment towards me is written all over your face. But unlike you, I'm able to hide what I'm feeling."

I can too.

Ripping up grass from below me, I ignored her.

She chattered on, "I'm tired because you put up a good fight today. Your strikes are getting stronger, and you're using your absolutely laughable height to your advantage." I froze, wondering if I heard her right. "You are right to be jealous though. I don't get tired when I shift."

Biting my lip, I relented. Fine, she wants to talk, I'll talk. "I still do, though much less."

"Our wolf form isn't just some armor we place on, it is our primary source of fight. It's our protection, our senses." Her structured brows furrowed. "It was once the only way our ancestors fought. Clans choosing to battle in the day are considered weak or they mean to disrespect the warring territory."

The first trial was completed after shifting. The second trial included shifting as well. I wasn't sure about the third.

"Why is the Rex Ortus fought in this form?"

"The battle to become Alpha is brutal. You must prove you are the best to lead, without the clear mind your wolf form provides."

I nodded, knowing what that was like.

It was easy to hunt and kill as a wolf.

The snap of bone and ligaments didn't disgust me, nor the blood, not like the grotesque feeling of my knuckles against flesh while fighting in this form.

"So when the first Lycan became...what you are now," I chose my words carefully, too exhausted to start another fight, "They gave up their humanity. But you're not unfeeling? Unless you shift."

It could help me to understand them, if I knew their ability to be cruel was due to our conflicting natures, and maybe resent the Umbra trio a little less for their actions and their words.

Maybe.

Footsteps cracked the ground. The wind carried with it the scent of him.

Mena watched me as I turned to find him, a distance away from us.

Seren's knees were bent, his body close to the ground. He was smiling, captivated by something.

Squinting my eyes, I shifted onto my knees to see better, forgetting about the conversation.

He leaned closer to the ground, long fingers sifting through the blades of grass. When he lifted his palms, a butterfly with honeyed amber wings rested in them.

It was strange, to see something so innocent in his palms, and how he so delicately handled it. To see a look of cherishment on his face towards it.

There was humor in the shake of his shoulders, as it closed its wings together, and crawled across his ringed knuckles, a dimpled line appearing in his cheek.

My body slammed into the ground, my heartbeat unsteady as I attempted to sift through the flurry of emotions that crashed into me.

Wrapping my arms tighter around my bent knees, I shivered under the warming sun.

Mena clicked her tongue in disbelief. "I've got it all wrong."

"Excuse me?" The words were hoarse from my throat, dragged out. I don't know why. But I wanted to cry.

I wouldn't. Not again. Not for, or because of him.

She cleared her throat, "You've got it all wrong. Lycan believe that everything around us is alive. We are no different from the leaves on the branches. Worth more than that butterfly. It's why we only hunt for necessity, not for sport. The hare you killed was given to the Stellae to create shoes for their children."

Mena curled her fingers dirt, lifting it into the air, and letting the particles slip through. "The earth holds memories."

"You have more respect for the dirt below our feet than you do for humans."

It was an observation, not an accusation.

Mena straightened. "We do. The plants, the rivers, the rain. They take without remorse, or malice, they exist just as Lycan do. There is nothing personal, it's just the way of life."

"Humans do the same."

Ever since the sun came back, humans hadn't tried hurting the Lycan. They barely believed we existed.

When my mother first saw my father, she must have thought he blossomed from a fairy tale.

Mena grew serious, hints of judgment bleeding through the fragile peace.

"No. They kill because they want to."

I took it as my sign to get up and move onto Seren for weapons training, wanting to have at least one conversation with Mena where neither of us attempted to hurt the other.

She didn't forgive me for existing. I didn't forgive her for her treatment of my friends.

But a seed of consideration had now been planted between us.

"Mena, did you really fall by accident that night?" I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

Below me, her hands grazed over snowdrops, frail and unpicked. Pearlescent eyes found no solace in my obsidian gaze when they met, her voice a phantom of the arrogance she once held.

"No, Vyra. I didn't."

***

'Dear Mistress—'

I tapped on the paper with the ink pen Sonya gifted to me, wondering what to say.

I'd been in the library now for hours, cozied up on a chair by the fire. Still my words failed me.

If I were a fool, I'd write exactly this.

'Hello. Everyone is probably hoping I hit my head hard enough to forget, but something strange happened.'

But alas, I was not a fool. And the chances of someone reading this letter was high even though I'd convinced Petir to take them directly to my grandmother for me.

There was always a risk.

I'd already divulged too much to get Petir to agree. When I told him it was for old times sake, he called bullshit.

So I told him.

Everything. About my grandmother, about my parents. It was my best attempt at bartering. My only stipulation is that he did not tell Sonya.

"I don't like keeping secrets from her." Petir said, inflamed from the truth.

Though not entirely surprised. Of course he wasn't. He'd suspected that my fate was more important than I'd ever been led to believe.

"Me either Petir, but I don't have a choice. Sonya is the only one of us that prays to the gods. I don't need her thinking I'm a martyr."

More than she already does.

"But you'll tell her eventually?" Petir insisted.

I sighed, "Yes. Both of you are like family to me. I want her to know, but I'd like to wait. Until I have a better understanding of what is going on and what it means."

He rolled his eyes, "That could take forever."

And I don't have it.

"Sonya asks us not to protect her, but we can't help it. She's different from us...sensitive. I don't want her doing something for my sake that would get her in trouble, just because she believes it is what the gods want."

Petir smiled, "Isn't that what friends are for? Lending you blind faith when you've run out of it yourself?"

He didn't want to, but he agreed knowing it was for the best. Thank Lunae he did.

"One more thing Vyra."

"Yes?"

"You'll let me investigate and see if there's a way out of this. Our history is long. Some impossible myths are just forgotten stories."

Answers, I needed them. I would do anything to get them. So I agreed to let him search, even if I knew it was vain.

Mena falling to her knees replayed over and over in my head.

As if the earth tugged on her. The harsh way her bones slammed into the dirt. The look of terror in her eyes.

My stomach rolled, willing my pen back onto parchment.

Each Clan had inclinations, despite most magic ability being used for shifting. Umbra members had mind-speak. Stellae were able to dream premonitions. Sol have a higher tolerance for pain, and don't experience fear. Caelum Lycan can sense lies or the truth, though it can be faulty.

Lunae's abilities as a Clan were wiped from any records, with pages ripped out, books burned.

If anyone could explain what occurred, it would be my grandmother.

It was too much. Without prior meetings, a letter written in code would make little sense. I would have to be vague, and pray it wouldn't be intercepted.

'Dear Mistress—

Visiting you in person won't be possible for the next few weeks. I will be busy, with many eyes watching me. I ask that instead you write to me in a way only I will be able to understand.

I commanded, and someone obeyed. Someone who would never listen to me otherwise. Please tell me what that could possibly mean.

Vyra Lu—'

Ow! I snatched my hand away from the paper, before blood could drip into it.

Ink mixed with the blood. Placing my finger into my mouth, I sucked in hopes to stop the bleeding.

When I pulled away, the ink remained. I rubbed at it with my thumb, seeing if it was just stained. But the ink seemed to be embedded below the skin.

Marveling at it, I lifted my finger towards the fire to see better.

Ink barely remained in Lycan skin. Like Seren mentioned, they had to use silver and ink to keep the wounds fresh, or else they'd just heal over.

Even the toughest of males only has small tattoos, usual symbols of their Clan. The upkeep was just too much work.

I, on the other hand...

My hands shook with excitement, as I sketched out a design on another sheet of parchment, something that was wholly mine.

Something that would represent me.

After testing the length I would need to penetrate the skin on the bottom of my foot, I started to transfer the ink onto my wrists.

Gritting my teeth, I accepted every stab of pain.

Only a few weeks ago, I wanted to let go of my past, my differences. I no longer felt that way.

I am half human. Ink started to curve around tan skin, and there it would remain. A symbol no one would be able to ignore, or deny.

They will see me as I am. Because even though I was not born an Outcast, I was made into one.

I wouldn't let myself forget.