The Whispering Woods Beckon

The air in the den was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of sickness and the damp earth. Lyra shivered, though not from the chill. A deep unease had settled into her bones, a feeling that had been growing for days, like a root slowly cracking stone. Beside her, Zephyr coughed, a weak, rattling sound that tore at Lyra’s heart. His fur, usually a vibrant, sun-dappled gold, was dull and matted, his breaths shallow. He was burning up, his small body wracked with tremors that even the rough bedding couldn’t soften.

Lyra pressed her nose against his flank, trying to offer what