Chapter 81: The Trial Begins

Lyra’s POV

I woke to pale light and the smell of stone and woodsmoke.

My body ached in places I’d forgotten I had—ribs tight, shoulders sore, legs still bruised from the last fight and the flight that came after. But the blankets were warm. The air still. Talon stirred in the crib beside the bed, fingers twitching in a dream, lips parted.

We were still alive.

Still here.

I sat up slowly, careful not to jostle him. The robe they’d given me last night clung to my skin, damp with sweat. I rubbed my eyes and looked toward the door, drawn by something subtle I couldn’t name at first. A shift in the air. A scent that didn’t belong.

Then I saw it.

A slip of parchment—folded once, slid under the door.

I rose and crossed the room, barefoot. When I bent to pick it up, a faint rustle sounded from beyond the door. Not footsteps. Movement. Someone retreating.

I opened the note.

One sentence. Neat, sharp handwriting. Masculine.

Open the door. Dress. Eat. Work begins at first bell.

No signature. No flourish.

I hesitated only a moment before unlatching the bolt and easing the door open.

Outside, the hallway was empty—but at my feet sat a shallow wooden tray and a folded stack of linen. I crouched and took inventory with my eyes.

A plate of eggs and spiced root mash, still warm.

Three plain dresses—roughspun gray, long-sleeved, sturdy. Three white aprons folded beneath them. A neatly bundled stack of cloth diapers, soft as cloudmoss. A toiletry kit tied with twine: soap, comb, a small glass bottle of something floral.

Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted.

Just enough.

I took everything inside and shut the door again, bolting it out of habit. Talon stirred. I crossed to the crib, picked him up, and held him close. He nuzzled into my chest, tiny fist curling around a fold of the robe.

“I guess we’re earning our keep,” I murmured.

His eyes opened—just barely. Drowsy, unfocused.

I fed him. I ate. I bathed quickly, then combed through my tangled hair and braided it into something tight and unremarkable.

I dressed in one of the gray shifts, belted at the waist, sleeves rolled past my elbows. The fabric was thick, itchy, but practical. I added the apron, then strapped Talon against my chest with the same sling I’d used across miles of forest and ashlands.

He settled quickly.

I opened the door again. This time, I stepped out with purpose.

The directions had been simple: downstairs, past the mess hall, rear double doors.

I passed no one on the stairs, but I felt eyes all the same. The Packhouse watched with quiet breath and sharp memory. No matter how soft my steps, no matter how still I kept my face, someone would speak of this later.

The outsider. The she-wolf with the baby. The one who came from blood.

The mess hall was empty, the tables scrubbed and lined in rows like soldiers at rest. I followed the hallway behind it and pushed open the double doors.

Heat slammed into me.

The kitchen was alive.

A long rectangular space with stone floors and vented ceilings. Ironwood counters. Hanging herbs above the prep stations. Wolves moved through it like dancers on a worn stage—measured steps, clean rhythm. Chopping. Boiling. Ladling. Crates unloaded in a back corner while others cleared last night’s bones from the butcher block.

Every head turned when I entered.

No one smiled.

I moved toward the side wall, out of the way. My back to the stone. Talon stirred once, then went quiet again, tucked beneath my collar like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.

A large she-wolf stepped forward. Older than me. Broader in the shoulders, with streaks of gray in her braid and forearms thick with old muscle. Her apron was stained in permanent rust. She had a knife in one hand and an expression that made the blade look gentle.

“You’re the Nightfall wolf.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I’m here to work,” I said simply.

She eyed Talon.

Then looked me up and down. “You’ll work silent.”

“Fine.”

“You don’t faint in my kitchen.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t feed your brat from the stew pot.”

I stiffened. “He’s fed.”

She grunted. “We’ll see.”

She turned, barking an order at one of the younger males loading water barrels.

Then looked back at me.

“You peel roots. You skin poultry. You stir, you clean, you carry. You lift when I say, you stop when I say. You break anything—don’t come back.”

“Understood.”

She jerked her head toward a station near the rear hearth. “Mina’ll show you.”

I crossed to the spot. A girl stood there—maybe nineteen, wiry, with curls coiled high and an apron twice-folded at her waist. She eyed me but didn’t offer her name.

“Carrot bin’s there. Peeler’s dull. You get through three by first bell or you’re wasting space.”

“Fine,” I said.

She passed me the blade.

I started peeling.

The rhythm came faster than I expected.

Peel. Rotate. Drop. Peel again. The kitchen hummed with voices and clatter, but no one spoke to me. They watched, though. I felt the side-glances. The weight of assumptions thick in the air. I ignored them. Focused on the motion. The work. The sharp sting in my shoulder. The dull ache of my spine.

Talon didn’t fuss. He slept, the sling moving gently with each of my breaths.

After an hour, Mina passed me a second bin. Still without words. I met her eyes once.

“You want something?”

She blinked. “No.”

“Then stop staring.”

She flushed and turned away.

A male on the other side of the station smirked.

“She’s been waiting to say that to someone for months,” he muttered.

I didn’t respond.

He kept talking. “Name’s Tarev. Don’t let Chef Sera scare you too much. She yells because she cares.”

“She yells because she likes power.”

“That too.”

He offered a grin. “You’re tougher than you look.”

“I’m exactly as tough as I look.”

His smile faded slightly.

“You really from Nightfall?”

I didn’t answer.

He nodded like that was answer enough.

“Bet you’ve seen some things.”

“I don’t talk about it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”

He went back to chopping.

By mid-morning, my back was a knot of pain, my hands raw. But I was still upright. Still moving.

Sera barked at me once to stir the main stew, then again to carry firewood from the corner pile. Tarev offered to help. I refused.

Every step was a reminder that I wasn’t healed.

But I was healing.

And no one saw me fall.

That was enough.

By midday, the kitchen quieted.

Most of the prep was done. Wolves came through in pairs and threes to collect meals. Sera dismissed half the team for rotation. Mina vanished without a word. Tarev offered me a leftover hunk of bread. I took it.

He gestured toward the corner stool.

“You earned that sit.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You will.”

I sat anyway.

He nodded toward Talon. “He sleeps a lot.”

“He’s young.”

“Looks like you carry him everywhere.”

“I do.”

“You going to keep doing that when combat trials start?”

I didn’t answer.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Most she-wolves with pups stay out of this part of the world.”

“I’m not most.”

“I know.”

He looked like he wanted to say more. Then didn’t.

A moment later, Chef Sera barked a command at him and he vanished toward the ovens.

I looked down at Talon.

His eyes fluttered. Just barely.

“I told you,” I whispered. “We survive.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to.

We were still standing.

And tomorrow would come.