Almost six years of oppressive cold and lean times within the mountain fortress had passed. Years of snow that broke walls and men alike. Many summers of wolves sniffing at their northern borders as they tested Iron Claw for weakness. Winters that buried them alive. Seasons of scarce food and rampant illness. Revolving cycles of back-breaking labor and chores.
Lyra survived it all.
At 15, she was taller. Her frame was lean from hard living, her shoulders set with quiet, resigned strength. Her silver-blonde hair had grown long, a bright light within a dark stone setting. She often kept it braided tightly to keep it out of her face, although making it smaller and not quite as noticeable was a benefit she wasn’t unaware of. Her storm grey eyes had lost the round innocence of childhood. They
