The Werewolves of Nyxryn

Chapter3

"You need some decent clothes," Lyra hummed, walking toward a giant wooden closet standing against the wall on the left side of the bedroom. The closet door sighed open like it had secrets it was relieved to spill. I had already started to protest—

“I don’t even have shoes with me,”—but she cut me off with a look that said she’d already anticipated every small panic.

Inside was a wardrobe I didn’t expect to see in a place that smelled half-ancient and half-forest: racks of clothes hung neatly, boots and shoes and sandals lined on lower shelves, folded cloaks and swaths of fabric that would have bankrupted me in the real world. Nothing like the grubby hand-me-downs we wore at home. This was proper clothing. Skirts, pants, dresses, shirts embroidered with patterns I couldn’t name. It was obscene, in a way—so much for one person to own, let alone for someone like me to be given because she had just killed someone, and was waiting for her own death to happen.

“You’re kidding me,” I muttered, as much to myself as to her. Lyra laughed, a short, surprised sound.

“No. Not kidding. The Alpha likes his guests presentable.” She reached forward and pulled out a simple dress and shoes that looked like they could survive a war.

“These will do. Practical. You’ll need to look human enough to stand in front of the pack, but not like you’re trying to be pretty for one of them.”

“Practical,” I repeated, thinking of the irony.

“Do all… prisoners get wardrobes?”

She slammed the closet shut with one hand and shook her head.

“No. Not the prisoners.” Her eyes met mine then, and for a second something soft flickered in them—no pity, exactly, but a kind of tired resignation.

“I only follow the Alpha’s instructions. He wanted you to look presentable.”

The word presentable felt like a costume. I pulled at the sleeve of the dress she’d tossed on the bed, feeling ridiculous and naked in a different way than bare skin. Still, the fabric was soft and smelled faintly of cedar and something sweet I couldn’t place. I put on the dress, the shoes fitting like they’d been made just for my feet. For a breathless moment, wearing something that didn’t smell like the grocery store, I felt absurdly small and absurdly powerful at the same time.

“You should at least eat,” Lyra said, nodding toward the tray now somewhat recovered and set on the table.

“You look like you could fall apart. You’re really skinny. Even for a human.”

“I can’t eat,” I said, and my voice cracked on the lie. My whole body felt sunken with dread; the idea of putting anything in my mouth made my stomach lurch.

“I can’t look at food right now.”

She hesitated, then pushed the tray closer.

“Eat. If you’re called in front of the Alpha on an empty stomach, you won’t think straight. You need your head clear.”

Head clear.

I thought of my brother’s face, the way he’d begged me to stay. Thoughts and clearheadedness were luxuries I couldn’t afford to waste, but the nausea wasn’t only about fear. It was the shock. It was the knowledge that every bite might be my last normal thing if I didn’t come back. It was the hollow ache of having the small, precious things of life—warm bread, a laugh, the smell of toast—pulled away from me and used as bargaining chips.

Still, when Lyra watched me with that steady, ordinary look that people use when they want you to do something for your own good, my stubbornness splintered. If I was going to be judged by beasts in a world I didn’t understand, I wanted my brain working, not greased with dry fear and an empty stomach. If the food were poisoned, at least I would be going out, not feeling hungry.

I picked at the bread at first, nibbling around the edges like I was afraid the center would turn to ash. The remaining broth that hadn’t spilled from falling was lukewarm, pleasantly salty, and for a second I forgot where I was—forgot the wood-carved ceiling and the fur on the bed and the murderous eyes that had promised a trial. I shoved a piece into my mouth and chewed, the simple action fierce and private and ordinary. It tasted so good I couldn't help the sound that escaped my lips.

By the third bite, my hands stopped shaking as violently. By the fourth bite, I let myself lean into the chair and actually swallow while enjoying the rich tastes. Lyra watched me with what might have been relief.

“Good,” she said simply.

“You’ll need it.”

I swallowed another mouthful and let the warmth of the food settle in my stomach like a small, defiant ember. The terror still waited behind my ribs, but at least—if only for the length of a meal—I could pretend life was somewhat ordinary. I could pretend I was still the woman who made breakfast and packed lunches and counted money four times a day. That thought steadied me more than I deserved.

When I set the empty bowl down, Lyra put a cloth over the tray and hesitated at the door.

“They’ll call you soon,” she said.

“I can stay with you if you want.”

“No,” I said, surprising myself with the force of it.

“Don’t. I need to be alone for a little while. I need to… to gather myself.”

She nodded, then paused, one hand on the latch.

“If you need anything—water, a blanket—just call our for me. Don’t try anything reckless.”

Lyra left me alone in the room with the curtains drawn and the quiet settling in like dust. I had eaten. I had shoes on my feet. For the first time since waking up in this gilded cage, I had a small sense of control—not much, but enough to hold onto for now.

I crossed to the window and pressed my palm against the smooth surface. The mountains outside looked impossibly far away. Inside, the room was too perfect, as if someone had staged it and then gone away to watch how I’d move through it. I pressed my forehead to the glass and closed my eyes, memorizing the way the light fell across the floor, the exact angle of the carved headboard, the faint smell of cedar and milk and sunshine. Perfect. This place just looked too perfect.

And still... I missed home. I missed my brother and sister.

If I was going to walk into whatever those monsters out there called a trial, I wouldn’t go in empty-handed. But with a memory of the small, honest things I was fighting for: Malrik’s sarcastic grin, Elira’s braids, the stupid toaster that never listened to me. They were the reason I had told the truth and the reason why I had ended up here. They were the reason I would try to survive whatever came next. Because one way or another, I would see my siblings again.