The forest whispered her name long before she remembered it herself.
Lyra walked beneath its branches, each step stirring ash from the ground. The air here was thinner, woven through with strands of light that shimmered like cobwebs. When she brushed one, it hummed — faintly musical, like a heartbeat turned into sound.
She stopped and listened. There were a thousand of them, trembling in the air, crossing and recrossing until the forest looked like a web spun from moonlight.
"Where am I?" she murmured.
No answer came, but the air rippled in response — the silver threads shivering as though they heard her.
She touched one again. A warmth spread up her arm, and with it came a rush of memory so swift it stole her breath: a voice shouting her name; a pair of hands catching her before she fell; the taste of rain on her lips.
Then it was gone.
Lyra staggered back, clutching her chest. "Kian," she whispered without knowing why.
The name hurt. Not in the way wounds do, but deeper, like a song half-forgotten.
She followed the glowing threads deeper into the woods. The ground softened underfoot; dew gathered on her bare ankles. Somewhere ahead, water murmured again — that same living rhythm she'd heard when she first woke.
When she reached the stream, she knelt beside it. The surface reflected not her face but flashes of another world: a hall lit by firelight, a man standing alone at a window, gold light pulsing on his wrist.
Lyra's heart stuttered. "Who are you?" she whispered.
The reflection blurred, then steadied. For an instant she saw his eyes — dark, tired, searching. Her breath caught. She knew those eyes.
The moment shattered; the water turned to ordinary ripples again.
Lyra bowed her head, trembling. "I'm not supposed to remember, am I?"
The forest seemed to answer with silence.
Then, faintly, the threads above her swayed, releasing a single strand that floated down like a feather. It brushed her shoulder and dissolved into light, leaving behind the scent of pine and smoke.
She closed her eyes. The smell wrapped around her, warm and familiar.
A voice — her own — echoed inside her mind. Follow what you remember.
By nightfall, she reached the ruins of a small shrine. Vines had reclaimed the stones, but beneath the moss she could see carvings of wolves and moons, their shapes worn smooth by time.
Something stirred at the base of the altar — a soft pulse, faint as a dying ember.
Lyra knelt and brushed away the leaves. A shard of crystal lay hidden there, glowing gold instead of silver.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted it. The light spilled across her palms, and this time the memory came clearly — not sight, not sound, but feeling.
Arms around her. A heartbeat under her cheek. The steady rhythm of it, anchoring her when everything else fell apart.
Love.
She gasped, eyes flying open. The crystal dimmed but didn't die.
For the first time since waking, Lyra smiled through tears. "You're still out there."
The wind rose, carrying the faintest echo — a howl far away, full of longing and defiance.
Lyra turned toward it, the crystal's glow steady in her hand. "Then I'm coming to find you."
The silver threads around her trembled, parting to clear a path.
She stepped forward, her heart beating in time with the unseen rhythm of another heart miles away.