4
The village of Bramble Glen was quieter than Rylan remembered. He hadn’t stepped foot here in years—maybe not since he was a teenager, chasing rogue wolves through the woodlands with nothing but a silver blade and an ego too big for his chest.
Now, as Alpha King, his visits were rare. Ceremonial. Cold.
Today, it was meant to be the same—just a check-in. Another show of presence for the smaller packs who still bowed their heads when he passed. A formality.
But fate doesn’t believe in formality.
Not when she’s about to drop a five-year-old in front of you with your eyes and your fire.
He had just dismounted near the town square when it happened.
A group of children ran past, playing tag, shrieking and laughing. One small girl broke away from the others—darting straight toward him with a crown of wildflowers tangled in her curls. She stopped just a few feet away, cheeks pink, breathing hard.
And then she smiled.
His heart stopped.
Her eyes.
Gods above—her eyes.
Amber gold with specks of silver. Bright. Alive. Familiar.
“Hi!” she chirped. “You came back.”
Rylan blinked. “I… sorry?”
The girl tilted her head. “From my dreams.”
That made him freeze.
She stepped forward like they knew each other. “Mommy said you weren’t real. But I knew you were. I saw you when the moon was big. You had the shiny sword. You were sad.”
Rylan stared at her, his throat dry. “What’s your name, little one?”
“Lyra,” she said proudly. “Lyra... uh… well, Mommy says we don’t have a last name.”
The ache in his chest deepened. His wolf—quiet for hours—suddenly snarled awake inside him.
“Lyra,” he repeated.
She grinned and took another step forward, tiny hands fidgeting with the lace hem of her tunic.
Then, with complete innocence, she looked up at him and said, “You’re my daddy, right?”
The world tilted.
Rylan crouched slowly to her level, heart hammering. “Why do you think that?”
“Because you look like me,” Lyra shrugged. “And I see you when I sleep. Sometimes you’re sad, but sometimes we play. Mommy says I dream too big, but I know things.”
He swallowed hard. “Does your mom know you’re talking to strangers?”
“She’s not far,” Lyra said, suddenly glancing toward the bakery. “She’s mad I ran off, but she’s always mad when I talk about you. She says you’re not real.”
“Lyra!” a voice shouted.
His heart slammed.
That voice.
It carved through the air like a dagger wrapped in honey.
He stood just as a woman burst out of the shop in a flour-dusted apron, breathless and wild-eyed. Her eyes found the little girl first—then trailed up.
To him.
The world froze.
Her lips parted in shock. Her knees buckled just slightly. And for one long, unbearable moment, they just stared.
Evanna.
Time had not dimmed her beauty. If anything, motherhood and silence had sharpened it. Her hair was longer now, braided down her back. Her cheeks were flushed with panic, lips bitten pink, eyes wide with dread.
“Lyra,” she choked. “Come here.”
“But he’s—”
“Now.”
Lyra’s shoulders fell. “I told you he was real…”
Evanna’s gaze hardened as she approached, placing herself between Rylan and the child.
He looked at her—not as a king, but as a man who once held her in his arms under candlelight. “She called me Daddy.”
“She’s wrong.”
“Evanna—”
“She’s five,” she snapped, voice tight. “She talks to the moon, Rylan. She makes up stories. It’s just a coincidence.”
But her hand was shaking.
And that look in her eyes—guilt, sorrow, fear—he knew it too well.
“I don’t believe you,” he said quietly.
Her eyes welled with tears, but she didn’t blink.
“Believe what you want. Just leave her out of it.”
“Evanna, if she’s mine—”
“She’s not.” Her voice cracked.
Silence fell. The kind that hurts more than shouting.
Then Lyra tugged at her mother’s hand. “But Mommy, he smells like home.”
Evanna’s face crumpled.
Rylan took one slow step forward, softer now. “Let me talk to you. Just us.”
She looked torn—broken open in a way that made his heart ache.
Finally, she whispered, “After I close up.”
And she led Lyra away without another word.
But she left him there with questions.
And a storm brewing in his chest.