Whispers of the Wild Heart

Previously

…The Mother appeared moments later, her face a mask of practiced indifference. She carried a small, limp rabbit in her mouth, its fur matted with blood. She dropped it unceremoniously near the back of the den, its lifeless eyes staring blankly. “Eat,” she commanded, her voice flat and devoid of warmth. Lyra’s stomach churned. The scent of the raw meat was overwhelming, and the sight of the dead rabbit sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. Zephyr, however, stirred, his weak eyes fixed on the offering. He managed a weak lick of his lips. “He’s too sick to eat that,” Lyra said, her voice barely a squeak. The Mother’s gaze, sharp and cold, settled on Lyra. “He