The Werewolves of Nyxryn

Book1: the house of light- chapter1

I woke to warmth.

Not the kind of clammy, stifling heat from our apartment when the old radiator refused to shut off during summer, but soft, even warmth that seeped through thick blankets and into my bones. For a long moment, I lay there, caught between sleep and panic, trying to figure out why everything smelled so… clean? Like cedarwood. Like smoke from a distant fire. Like money, if money even had a scent.

My eyes cracked open.

The ceiling above me wasn’t cracked plaster, stained yellow from years of leaks. It was carved wood, dark and polished, beams stretching across like ribs of some old cathedral. The bed beneath me wasn’t my lumpy mattress at home, but something enormous, draped in layers of velvet and fur so soft it almost made me sink. A rug thick enough to swallow my bare feet sprawled across the floor. Curtains the color of wine framed a window tall enough to climb through—except outside, instead of the dingy street I knew, the view was of mountains, sharp and jagged against a pale morning sky.

I sat up so fast my head spun.

This wasn’t a cell.

This wasn’t even close.

My hands ran over the quilt, the carved headboard, the pillow that smelled faintly of pine.

No chains.

No bars.

Not even a lock on the heavy double doors across the room.

“What the hell…” I whispered, my throat dry.

I had braced myself for stone walls and damp floors, for being tossed into a hole and forgotten until my trial.

But this?

A bedroom?

A gorgeous one, the kind I had only ever seen in magazines left behind in the grocery store’s break room. The kind you would expect a princess to wake up in. Except I wasn’t a princess. I was the girl who clocked in double shifts, scrubbed spilled milk off aisle five, and counted every damn coin to make sure my siblings had enough to eat.

So why in God’s name was I here?

I swung my legs out of bed, immediately hissing as my raw feet hit the rug. At least it was soft, but the sting reminded me how far I had walked last night. How far I had been dragged.

Pieces came back in flashes—the woods, the shimmer in between the trees, the blow to my head. The dark eyes. The voice that promised judgment and ultimately, my death.

a life for a life...

My stomach turned.

I should’ve been rotting in a cell. Instead, I was in a room that felt like it belonged to someone important, someone powerful and meaningful. And that scared me more than any prison could have at this point. Because this wasn’t kindness. No. This was strategic.

They wanted something from me.

The question was—what?

Because clearly... I had absolutely nothing to give.

The first thing I did after convincing myself I wasn’t still dreaming was head for the door. The handles gleamed bronze, heavy and ornate, shaped into curling vines that felt oddly warm against my palm. I twisted hard.

Nothing.

Not one single movement.

I twisted again, harder, then shoved my shoulder against the wood, my breath coming sharp and fast. The door didn’t budge. Not even a rattle. It wasn’t just locked—it was sealed.

“Great,” I muttered, pressing my forehead against the frame.

“So much for the princess suite. More like a gilded cage.”

I backed away, glaring at it like maybe if I stared long enough, it would magically swing open. No such luck. The silence that followed pressed in on me, thick and suffocating. My stomach growled, loud in the quiet, and I pressed a hand to it automatically. God, I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast with Malrik and Elira, and that felt like years ago now. But even if they’d set out a feast in front of me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach a single bite. Because the gnawing in my gut wasn’t just hunger—it was fear.

This might be my last day alive.

How on earth am I supposed to eat, when I know I will be dead tomorrow...

The thought hit me harder than I expected. I had always carried fear around with me, sure—fear of bills piling up, of our mother drinking herself to death, of Malrik and Elira going without food, of myself breaking under the weight of it all. But fear of actually dying? Of being ripped apart, or judged by laws I didn’t even understand? That was new. And it sank its claws into me deeper than hunger ever could.

I turned back into the room, pacing. The bed looked too perfect, too soft, as if it was mocking me. The window, though wide, had no latch, no seam to push open. I pressed my hands against the glass—it didn’t even feel like glass. It felt like stone, smooth and cold, solid as if the mountains beyond were just a painting. A fake image to make me feel safe.

I paced more, dragging my fingertips over the carved dresser, the fur throw, the rug that seemed to swallow sound. Everything was beautiful in here, everything was rich, and yet it only reminded me of how wrong I was here. I didn’t belong in a place like this. I didn't belong in a room like this. I belonged at home, with Malrik cracking dumb jokes over burnt toast and Elira humming while she tied her braids.

A lump rose in my throat.

Malrik...

Elira...

I tried to shake it off, to focus. I needed to know why. Why had they locked me up in here, instead of tossing me in some dungeon? Why give me a gorgeous room, only to promise a trial that would almost certainly end in my death? Maybe this was their idea of mercy—letting me taste a life I would never have before they would end it altogether.

The thought was bitter enough to choke me.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, my hands clutching my hair. My stomach growled again, but I pressed it down. Food wouldn’t help me right now. Nothing would help me right now. Because the unknown was worse than the hunger inside my body. Worse than the monster who had dragged me here, the scene feeling like one straight out of a 50's horror movie. Worse than the truth, I had spoken to save Malrik and Elira. The unknown was eating me alive. And I honestly didn't know how much more I could take.