— Peace was her family settled around a hearth as they laughed through a midnight burn. Peace was the sight of playing children within the wildflower fields just as the sun turned pink. Peace was her friends, her family, and her pack.

Saela once knew peace.

But not anymore.

Her family was from meager beginnings, a once-nomadic bunch that had grown into a thriving and well-renowned clan. By nature, they were non-threatening, and their growing numbers were never power-hungry or ambitious. They were simple, collectively minded, and were satisfied with the peaceful life they led. However, their way of life was not viewed favorably, and as their numbers continued to grow, others came to see them as a growing threat.

Her family hadn’t had time to prepare, and that night, everything Saela knew changed in the blink of an eye. They came by nightfall, shrouded in the darkness and equipped with an organization that Saela had never seen before. They pillaged, they harmed, they fought—and in the end, it was her people who bled.

She can still remember their screams.

Their leader, who found interest in her pale coat and striking eyes, gave an order to the rest, and it was her life that was ultimately spared. He had saved her, he often had told her. But it was not the saving she had needed, and he had done nothing close to what he allegedly believed.

Instead, Saela was taken.

She was touted as a trophy to the leader. Used as a warning. And treated like a thing.

Her captivity was not peaceful, if there ever was one. And at first, Saela had done her best to fight the restraints that kept her caged. She had screamed until her throat was raw, she had fought until her flesh bled, and she had waged hell at every turn she could take.

But whatever challenge she performed had been met with cold, hard truths. There was nothing—no power, no strength, no skill— that could make a difference to the men who had stolen her. There was nothing that they were not willing to do to remind Saela who exactly she was in their presence.

Who, they, had forced her to become.

An object. A pet. A token of their conquest.

And the fight she had practiced in the months following her capture turned to a bitter silence as the hope for escape grew smaller and smaller.

Objects used to be seen strewn along her fur—“mementos,” the men would say—as a reminder of who and what she belonged to. Now, in Mythris, those objects have been lost to time. Yet, those braids remain. A bitter reminder of who and what she now is.