Lyra had always been good at noticing small things.
It was how she survived before she ever crossed Nightfang's border—how she learned when to stay silent, when to move, when danger hid behind kindness. Even now, surrounded by stone walls and wolves who called this place home, that instinct never truly slept.
Something was wrong.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't obvious. It was a pause—the kind that slipped between moments, barely noticeable unless you were already used to listening.
She felt it while sweeping the corridor outside the healer's rooms.
The broom moved steadily in her hands, the soft scrape of straw against stone grounding her. Wolves passed her, nodding politely. A few smiled. One or two lingered, as if curious.
Then the feeling came.
Like being counted.
Lyra slowed, her grip tightening slightly on the broom handle. She didn't turn right away. She pretended not to notice, the way she always had.
Behind her, a presence lingered too long.
She finished sweeping, set the broom carefully against the wall, and only then looked over her shoulder.
The corridor was empty.
Her heart skipped.
You're imagining it, she told herself quickly. You're tired.
Still, the warmth beneath her skin stirred—not flaring, not glowing, but tightening in a way she was beginning to recognize. Awareness, not power.
Lyra folded her hands together and continued on.
Kael noticed the shift before she said anything.
She was quieter that evening. Not withdrawn—Lyra never truly withdrew—but more thoughtful. Her answers came a beat later than usual. Her eyes lingered on doors, corners, shadows.
He watched her from across the table, forcing himself not to stare too openly.
"You've barely eaten," he said finally.
Lyra blinked, glancing down at her plate as if surprised to find it untouched. "Oh. I forgot."
Kael frowned. "Did something happen?"
She hesitated.
"I don't know," she admitted softly. "That's the strange part."
Kael set his fork down. "Tell me anyway."
Lyra toyed with the edge of her sleeve. "Have you ever felt like someone was listening… even when no one was there?"
His wolf lifted its head instantly.
"When?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.
"Today," she said. "And last night. It's not scary. Just… wrong."
Kael leaned back slightly, scanning the room without making it obvious. Nothing seemed out of place. The guards stood where they should. The pack moved naturally.
Too naturally.
"You did the right thing telling me," he said. "Don't change your routines. Don't confront anyone. Just notice."
Her brows knitted together. "You believe me?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
That seemed to surprise her more than if he'd doubted her.
"Oh," she murmured.
Later that night, Kael stood alone on the balcony, staring out over Nightfang territory. The moon hung low, pale and watchful.
The Elders were wrong about one thing.
Lyra's power wasn't loud.
It was perceptive.
That made it far more dangerous to the wrong people.
Footsteps approached behind him.
"Alpha," one of the guards said. "Scouts report movement near the outer ravine. Not crossing. Just watching."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Ashen Vale?"
"Yes."
Kael dismissed the guard and remained where he was, hands gripping the stone railing. Somewhere inside the keep, Lyra slept—unaware of how many eyes were beginning to turn her way.
And worse—
Unaware that not all of them were outside the pack.
Lyra dreamed of water that night.
Not drowning. Not fear.
Still water, glowing faintly beneath the surface, waiting for her touch.
And somewhere beyond the dream, something listened back.