The Orphan’s Eyes
The Orphan’s Eyes
The rain had passed by dawn, but the scent of it lingered—earthy, sharp, alive.
Mia stood at the open archway of the training barracks; arms folded as she watched the younger wolf’s spar. Their movements were raw, imprecise—more instinct than finesse—but there was fire in them. Not the fire of vengeance or pride.
The fire of hope.
She scanned the ring for one face in particular and found him near the far post, crouched low, wooden blade held too tightly: Tomas.
Small. Quiet. Maybe ten winters old.
An orphan of Cragrest. One of the many children brought into the Circle’s fold after the siege. He hadn’t spoken for weeks after arriving. Wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Ate in silence. Slept in corners.
Until two nights ago.
When he knocked on the door of Mia’s study and said, his voice steady and clear:
“I want to learn to defend what I never had.”
That was all.
But it had been enough.
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Now he stood, trembling slightly, across from a larger pup in the ring. Mia could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched as the match began.
“Don’t meet force with fear,” she murmured to herself.
The larger pup lunged.
Tomas didn’t counter.
He sidestepped—clean, sharp, fast.
The bigger boy stumbled.
And in that moment, Tomas saw an opening.
He didn’t strike.
He disarmed—flipping the wooden blade from the boy’s hand with a twist of his wrist.
The ring went quiet.
Then erupted in howls of surprise and cheers.
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Mia smiled as Tomas stepped back, offering the blade to his opponent with a simple nod.
Not cocky.
Not cruel.
Just present.
A small hand tugged on her cloak.
“Did you see?” asked Kirri, one of the orphan girls from the Hollowreach blight. “He didn’t even hit him!”
“I saw,” Mia said, crouching beside her.
Kirri whispered, “Do you think we could do that one day? Fight without hurting?”
Mia looked into her eyes—deep brown, flecked with green. Wide with possibility.
“I think,” Mia said slowly, “you’re going to teach me how.”
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Later that day, Mia sat alone in her study, the air thick with parchment, maps, and the scent of Riverwood incense burning low in the corner.
She hadn’t lit it for herself.
It was a gift from the dream-seer.
The old woman had returned to the Circle outskirts weeks ago, setting up her simple painted tent at the edge of the woods. She claimed to only stay where dreams gathered.
And lately… they were gathering.
Mia picked up a scroll from her desk—Tomas’s file.
There was no family name.
No lineage.
Only the words:
“Found in the ruins of Cragrest. Protected others. Spoke little. Watched much.”
She ran her thumb over the ink.
So many young wolves now filled their halls.
Not soldiers.
Not legacy heirs.
Witnesses of what had burned.
She needed to know what they saw when they looked at her.
Not the Luna.
Not the war-scarred.
Just Mia.
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As dusk fell, she walked alone through the whispering birches until the colored flaps of the dream-seer’s tent appeared between the trees.
It was stitched from a patchwork of old pack banners and symbols—some she didn’t recognise. Others from stories long lost.
Smoke curled from the low chimney. Wind-chimes of carved bone and feathers danced in silence.
The flap opened before Mia could knock.
“Come,” the old voice croaked.
Inside, the tent was warm. Low shelves of dried herbs lined the walls. A circle of pillows around a fire pit, above which hung an iron kettle that hissed with something bitter and green.
The dream-seer looked the same—impossibly old and entirely aware. Her eyes were clouded, but her perception was razor-sharp.
“You’re late,” she said.
Mia raised a brow. “You didn’t say I was coming.”
“You came the moment you asked yourself if they saw you.”
Mia sat.
The kettle hissed again.
The dream-seer poured two cups and slid one toward her.
“Drink,” she said. “Then speak of the orphan.”
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Mia drank.
It tasted like smoke, mint, and memory.
She told her of Tomas. Of his silence. The way his eyes drank the world in, even when he wouldn’t meet it.
She told her of Kirri, who drew dream-animals in the ash with her fingers and claimed to speak to ghosts.
Of Nara, who refused to wear shoes and could name the song of every bird in the northern canopy.
“They watch us,” Mia whispered. “Not like children watch their elders—but like wolves watch their surroundings before choosing whether to trust.”
The dream-seer smiled, yellow teeth like lantern slats.
“They are not waiting for your approval,” she said. “They are watching to see if your future matches the one they dream of.”
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Mia frowned. “And if it doesn’t?”
The old woman tapped her cup.
“They will build it anyway.”
Then, softer:
“Don’t be afraid of the orphan’s eyes. They are the ones that will name the Luna who comes after you.”
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Mia left the tent just before moonrise.
She did not return to her study.
She returned to the training barracks.
There, in the side yard, a group of children sat around a small fire, passing stories. Tomas sat in the corner, whittling a stick into a spear.
He didn’t look up when she approached.
But he did make room for her.
Mia sat on the stone ledge beside him.
She watched the others for a moment.
Then said, quietly:
“Will you tell me what you see when you look at me?”
Tomas didn’t answer at first.
Then:
“I see someone who watches like I do.”
A pause.
“But sometimes… You forgot to listen.”
Mia nodded slowly.
“Then maybe you could help me remember.”
He looked up then—his eyes dark, deep, unafraid.
“I will.”
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She stood and raised her voice.
“Tomorrow, I want your voices in council.”
Heads turned.
Confused.
Mia smiled.
“I’m forming a new branch. Not the elders. Not warriors. The watchers. The dreamers. The ones who remember what it was like before anyone asked us to lead.”
Tomas stood.
And others joined him.
Nara.
Kirri.
A dozen more.
And without hesitation—
They howled.