Layla didn't know how much she had lay there, bleeding into the dirt. All she could notice was the silence that hurt just as much as he body did.
With the little strength remaining in her frail body, she dragged herself, broken, battered,and barely breathing to the nearest tree.
Every inch she moved was like a thousand ants crawling all over her body—a scream.
But she made it.
And there, with her back slumped against the rough bark, her vision blurred, almost fading into shadows, and the pain folding into numbness.
And then... Nothing.
The darkness took her.
Quiet.
Cold.
And unforgiving.
The air smelled like wildflowers.
Layla stood barefoot in a sunlit field, the sky above her a soft, endless blue. No pain. No bruises. No blood. Only warmth.
She could hear laughter—hers, light and carefree, as she spun slowly, arms stretched to the sky. A breeze brushed her cheeks like a mother's hand.
"Layla," someone called gently. A voice she couldn't place, but felt safe hearing. "You're free here."
She turned toward the sound,
But the field darkened.
The breeze grew sharp, cruel. The laughter stopped.
Smoke coiled in the air, thick and choking.
Suddenly, she was no longer barefoot in a meadow.
She stood at the edge of the pack infirmary,
But something was wrong. The scent of blood was thick in the air, carried on the wind along with smoke and distant howls.
Wolves ran past her, some limping, some dragging others. She saw flashes of fangs, torn uniforms, panic.
Layla moved forward, heart racing. The infirmary doors were hanging off their hinges, claw marks gouged deep into the walls. Inside—it was worse.
Broken stretchers. Shredded supplies. A healer's station turned into a battlefield.
Then she saw him.
Her father,
Lying still in a corner, barely recognizable beneath the blood and dirt. His body was torn open, but even in death, he looked like he'd fought to the last breath.
"No…" she whispered, legs trembling.
She turned, praying her mother was safe—still helping, still healing.
But her mother was there too.
Crushed beneath fallen debris. Her healer's robe soaked through. A tray of herbs still clutched in one hand, as if she had been treating someone… right before it happened.
"Mama," she croaked, rushing to her side, shaking her. "Wake up. Please, Mama, wake up…"
No answer. Just the rising smoke. Just the silence of the dead.
And then...
Howls. From inside the infirmary. The enemy was still here.
Layla screamed....
And the dream shattered.
She jolted awake, gasping, body twisting in panic. But the pain, immediate, sharp, unforgiving, snapped her back into place.
Her ribs flared with every breath. Her back ached where it scraped against the tree. Her face was wet with tears, not rain.
It wasn't just a dream.
It was a memory.
She knew it too well. The raid. The blood. Her father's body in pieces. Her mother, crushed in the infirmary.
She'd been fifteen when it happened. Fifteen when her world ended in one night.
And now, it was happening again, different enemies, same helplessness.
Layla pressed her forehead to her scraped knees, biting back a sob.
Why did it always have to be her?
Why was she always the one left alive to remember?
She stood with all her strength, her legs trembling beneath her. Every step she took was rewarded with a sharp pain shooting through her ribs, but she kept going, not because she wants but she because she had to.
Staying in the woods was dangerous, especially for someone like her, someone injured, broken, and without a wolf.
So she walked, in pain, to Moon knows where, away from the darkness, the memory of her parent's demise, and lastly, from the blood still drying on her skin.
She walked for what felt like hours, her feet dragging through twigs and dirt, until she heard it, soft and steady, the sound of a stream nearby.
A new strength found her, and she moved as quickly as her battered body could allow and walked towards it.
When she finally got there, the tears came rushing, relieved to find a source of comfort after going through all she had gone through.
She walked closer and bent down to drink from it. Her body protested, but she forced herself, enduring through the killing pain. After drinking, she felt a little bit better, as she had been dehydrated from walking for hours without water.
She then pulled her clothes so she could clean herself up inside.
Entering the water, she used her hands to carefully scrub her body to wash off the blood on her skin and in her hair. She repeated the cycle until she felt clean enough, even though her back and arms were crying out in pain.
She waddled out of the water after being satisfied with the cleanup, but froze when she saw something familiar, a plant that looked like something her mother had shown her when she was younger.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Flashback
"Always pay attention to the roots, Layla," her mother said, crouching in the garden with sand stained fingers. "This one's called Silvergrass, It helps with pain and fever when crushed and soaked in warm water."
Layla, no older than ten, sat beside her with wide eyes, trying to imitate her mother's careful movements.
"And this one?" she asked, pointing at a tiny purple flower with curled petals.
"That's Starbloom," her mother replied with a fond smile. "It's rare, but powerful. Stops bleeding if used properly. Crush the petals and apply them directly to the wound."
"Will I be a good healer like you, Mama?"
Her mother laughed softly, brushing her knuckles across Layla's cheek. "Better. You've got the heart for it."
End of flashback.
Tears welled up in Layla's eyes again. She knelt slowly, her battered body protesting, and ran her fingers over the plant's leaves.
Silvergrass.
Just like her mother taught her.
Her fingers trembled as they hovered above the leaves. The memory of her mother's voice echoed in her mind like a whisper carried by wind.
"Crush the roots, soak them... it dulls pain."
She wasted no time. Layla dug gently around the base of the plant, careful not to damage it. Her nails scraped against the earth, caked with blood and dirt, until she pulled out enough of the root to work with.
She found a flat stone nearby and dragged herself over to it, then used a smaller one to mash the roots. Her arms shook, her back screamed, but she didn't stop until the roots were a soft, pulpy mess.
It wasn't perfect, but it was something.
She dipped the mashed root into the stream water using a torn strip of her shirt, then pressed the soaked cloth gently against her wounds. The relief wasn't immediat, but when it came, it was like the earth exhaled for her.
Not healing. But numbing. Enough to move. Enough to survive.
Just as she finished applying the paste, the sound of a twig snapping behind her made her freeze.
No..... not again.