The world was always too loud for Lyra Hale.
Not the kind of loud that came from cars or horns or city
smoke—but the kind that seeped through people's voices. Their anger. Their
pressure. Their expectations. Everyone wanted something from her.
"Speak louder, Lyra."
"Don't be so sensitive."
"Grow up."
But she never did. Not in the way they meant.
She grew inward, like a plant curling beneath cold soil.
Quiet. Observant. Soft.
While others shouted over each other, Lyra listened to the
wind. To the way it kissed the leaves. To how the moss turned toward light. How
flowers shivered before storms.
It was why she became a botanist, or at least—why she tried.
The world had little time for soft girls with tender hands and too many
feelings. Yet Lyra studied soil and seed, taught herself how to coax life from
rot. She found comfort in roots and petals, the way they bloomed without noise
or expectation.
Her grandmother used to call her a "green whisperer."
> "The Earth likes you," she once said, brushing Lyra's
knuckles with worn fingers.
"It hears the way you hum to it. One day, child, it will
answer back."
Lyra smiled at the memory. That was before her grandmother
died. Before her parents left her behind. Before she was alone.
And now, standing in the Amazon jungle, ankle-deep in
ancient moss, notebook in hand, Lyra wondered if maybe—just maybe—that old
woman was right.
Before her lay a stone tablet, half-buried beneath twisting
vines and wildflowers that bloomed out of season. The tablet pulsed with soft
green light—like a heartbeat.
She should've reported it. Logged the anomaly. Followed the
rules.
But something in her chest—something deep and quiet—called
her closer.
The vines moved for her. Like they knew her.
She reached out. Touched the stone.
And the world shattered into petals.
---
She didn't scream. She couldn't.
She was falling—through stars, soil, sunlight. Her body
dissolved. Her breath spun into pollen. Her bones trembled like wind-touched
leaves.
Voices—not human—whispered in the dark.
> "Soft soul. Fractured thread. Forbidden bloom."
"She is not of fang, nor claw… and yet…"
"…let her take root."
---
When Lyra opened her eyes again, the air no longer smelled
like rain and rot.
It smelled like honeyed grass and moonlight.
She would soon discover that she was no longer on Earth.
And that the beasts who ruled this ancient realm did not
welcome what they did not understand.
But they would love her—desperately, violently,
protectively.
Because she was the one thing they never expected:
A fragile girl with a secret garden,
A voice the Earth remembered,
And a soul the wild would never let go.
---
🩵 End of Prologue