She was nine years old when rogue traffickers dragged her into that abandoned den, threw her in with a dozen other terrified pups. She'd been shaking so hard she couldn't breathe, her young wolf whimpering inside her. And then a boy stepped forward—young Fenris, all gangly limbs and fierce determination, his wolf already showing dominance beyond his years, positioning himself between her and danger. They'd fought their way out together, running until their lungs burned and their paws bled.
But the terror had been too much. Her mind had buried the memory completely, leaving a gap that Selene had slipped into, claiming credit for a rescue she'd never made.
The den was gone now. In its place stood a gleaming trade hall, all humming activity and workers' voices echoing off stone walls. Lyra stood at the entrance in her human form, watching the bustle of pack commerce, and felt fragments of that buried memory surface like debris rising through dark water.
They stirred nothing in her. Not anymore.
She exhaled slowly and turned away. The stolen credit, the twisted history—it could all stay here, buried beneath stone and progress.
Five hours before departure.