16 The Light in How Hands
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16 The Light in Her Hands
Nyra’s POV
My mother’s hands were shaking as she tore at the edge of the bandage, eyes wild like she was ready to set the whole pack on fire with her bare hands.
“Nyra,” she said again, and this time my name sounded like a prayer and a threat. “Who did this to you?”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
I flinched, not from pain, but from the fury in her. I’d heard her angry before, but never like this. Never the kind of anger that came from fear. From the thought of losing the only person she had left.
“No,” I said quickly, grabbing her wrist gently. “Mum. It wasn’t anyone from Vandwood.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then who?”
I swallowed. My throat felt raw. “Rogues.”
The word landed heavy in the small room.
My mother went still, like her entire body had locked.
Then the fear came back twice as strong.
“Rogues?” she hissed. “Nyra, what were you doing in the woods?”
I looked down. Shame crawled up my neck.
“I went for a walk,” I muttered. “I, I just needed air.”
“A walk?” Her voice rose, sharp and shaking. “You went for a walk into rogue territory like you’re a wolf who can fight?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Because she was right.
I had been careless.
Not because I didn’t know better, because I hadn’t cared enough in that moment whether I lived or died.
My mother’s eyes filled with tears so fast it startled me.
“What do you expect me to do without you?” she demanded, the words slicing right through me. “Nyra, what do you expect me to do if you leave me?”
My chest tightened painfully.
She grabbed my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her. Her fingers were cold. Her palms trembled.
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“You are not allowed to be careless with your life,” she said, voice breaking. “Do you hear me? You are not allowed.”
I blinked hard, suddenly choking on something thick and awful.
Because I’d never seen it this clearly before, how my death wouldn’t just be… my death.
It would destroy her.
She would be alone.
Truly alone.
And no one in Vandwood would care enough to keep her alive.
My throat closed.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
My mother’s mouth trembled. Tears rolled down her cheeks, unrestrained now, like she’d been holding them back for years and my blood was the thing that finally cracked the dam.
“I’m sorry too,” she whispered, voice small. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you enough.”
“No,” I said quickly, panic rising. “Mum, don’t, don’t say that.”
She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut as another tear fell. “I brought you into a pack that hated you. I kept you alive in a place that would rather you didn’t exist. I,” Her voice broke. “I failed you.”
“You didn’t,” I said fiercely, even though my own eyes were burning now. “You didn’t fail me. You’re the only reason I’m still here.”
She stared at me like she didn’t believe she deserved that.
I wiped her tears with my thumb, hands trembling. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered. “I won’t wander into the woods again. I promise.”
My mother took a shaky breath, trying to compose herself, but her eyes kept flicking to the blood soaking through the new wrapping, like she couldn’t stop seeing the worst outcome.
Her gaze dropped to my side. Her expression hardened again.
“And this?” she asked, voice turning colder. “Who stitched you? Who let you walk home like this?”
I hesitated.
Then I said softly, “A stranger helped me.”
Her brows drew together. “A stranger?”
I nodded. “He found me in the woods. He… he saved me.” The words felt strange in my mouth. “He carried me to the hospital.”
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My mother’s jaw tightened. “And the doctors treated you?”
I looked away. The shame returned, sharp and familiar.
“They didn’t want to,” I admitted. “One of them said I was… contaminating their things.”
My mother’s face went still.
Then her anger ignited, hot and frightening.
“What?” she whispered.
I forced myself to keep talking before her rage consumed her. “He, the stranger, forced them. He threatened them.” I swallowed. “If he hadn’t, I would’ve died.”
My mother’s hands curled into fists.
“And then?”
“And then,” I said quietly, “they discharged me early. The doctor insisted. He didn’t want me there.”
My mother’s eyes flashed with something fierce, something that made her look less like an outcast and more like a wolf who’d once been respected.
“Don’t worry,” she said, voice low and hard. “It is only a matter of time before you have your time in the
sun.”
The sentence should have comforted me.
It didn’t.
Because I’d heard it my whole life.
Like a lullaby she kept singing into a storm, hoping it would quiet the thunder.
I gave her a tired smile that wasn’t a smile at all.
“How?” I whispered. “How can a wolfless person like me ever shine, Mum?”
My voice cracked.
“I’ve accepted my fate.”
The moment I said it, her expression changed.
Something sharp passed through her eyes, like fear, or warning, or a decision.
“Don’t,” she snapped, too fast. Too intense. “Don’t say that.”
I blinked, startled by the force of it.
She opened her mouth again, like she was about to say something she’d never said before.
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16 The Light in Her Hands
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Something big.
Something dangerous.
But her gaze flicked over my face, and suddenly all the colour drained from hers.
“Nyra…” she whispered.
I frowned. “What?”
“You’re pale,” she said urgently, her voice rising. “Show me your wound.”
“Mum, I’m fine,”
“Nyra,” she snapped, and there was no arguing with that tone. “Now.”
I swallowed and slowly peeled back the bandage.
The fabric stuck to me, and when it came away, fresh blood smeared across my skin. The wound looked angry, red and wet and torn, the stitches pulled apart like they’d given up.
My stomach turned.
My mother inhaled sharply.
Then she placed her hand over it.
I expected pressure. Pain. Maybe another scolding.
Instead,
Warmth bloomed beneath her palm.
Not the warmth of skin.
Something deeper.
Something impossible.
I sucked in a breath as a soft light flickered from between her fingers.
Faint at first.
Then brighter.
A pale glow poured over my wound like moonlight turned liquid.
My eyes widened. My whole body went rigid.
“Mum…” I whispered, voice trembling. “What, what is that?”
She didn’t answer.
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She kept her hand there, eyes shut, brows drawn like she was concentrating hard enough to hold the world together.
The light pulsed once.
Twice.
Then the pain in my side, gone.
Not dulled.
Not numbed.
Gone.
I stared, frozen, as my skin knit together beneath her hand. The torn flesh sealed as if it had never been ripped open. The redness faded. The bleeding stopped.
My breath hitched.
When she finally lifted her hand away, there was no wound.
No stitches.
No blood.
Just smooth skin… like I’d never been torn apart in the first place.
I stared at it, unblinking, because my mind couldn’t catch up.
My mouth parted, but no sound came out.
I didn’t even realise I wasn’t hurting anymore.
All I could do was stare at my mother’s hand, at her trembling fingers, at the last faint trace of light that faded from her skin.
And suddenly the world felt different.
Like something I thought I knew about my life… 2
had just been proven wrong.
Karima Sa’ad Usman Author
Thank you for coming this far. I hope the story is coming along nicely and I will love to read your thoughts xxx.
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