"Freya, I'm going to tell you something," Jeffrey said. "And I need you to listen with an open mind. I don't want you to freak out or be scared."
Freya raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it?"
"I've been struggling with how to tell you this... but it's time. I can't keep it from you any longer. Your nightmares... they're getting stronger because your powers are awakening. It's time for you to accept who you really are."
A frown creased her forehead. "And who, exactly, am I?"
Jeffrey met her gaze. "You're a werewolf."
Freya blinked, and a brief silence hung between them. Then she let out a small chuckle, shaking her head. "Gramps, come on. Werewolves are myths. They're not real."
"But you are," Jeffrey said firmly. "Your grandmother was one too."
Freya scoffed, tilting her head. "Have you been binge-watching werewolf movies or reading some supernatural novel? Because this is insane."
"Just wait here; I'll be right back," Jeffrey said, pushing himself up from the chair and heading upstairs.
Freya sat there, her mind racing. This had to be a joke. How was she supposed to accept that she was something out of a myth? That she wasn't even who she thought she was? That she didn't exist in the way she had always believed?
No, it wasn't possible. She was just a normal human. Or at least, she thought she was. But did this mean she wasn't even real?
Her fingers curled around the edge of the kitchen table, trying to calm herself as confusion and fear twisted in her chest.
Jeffrey returned a few minutes later with two old books in his hands. He sat beside her and flipped one open before turning it toward her. The pages were filled with sketches, wolves standing on two legs, half-human, half-beast figures with glowing eyes, their forms shifting under the moonlight. Notes were scrawled in a language she didn't recognize. The images stared back at her, unsettling and surreal.
Freya swallowed hard. "Is this some kind of storybook?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Jeffrey didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the second book, opening it to reveal a hidden compartment. From it, he retrieved a small device and placed it in front of her.
The screen flickered to life, and Freya's breath caught as she stared at the face staring back at her—her father.
"Hello, Fae," Jack's voice came through. "If you're watching this, it means you've started to transform. It means I'm not here to guide you, but you need to listen carefully. I know this must be overwhelming, but you have nothing to be afraid of. You have nothing to fear, but you must accept who you are. If you don't, you'll suffer, and there will be consequences."
Freya's fingers dug into her lap as she gripped the edge of the book.
"I'm sorry for what you're about to see," Jack continued.
He stood and stepped back from the camera. His body tensed, and then, before her eyes, his face elongated, his eyes glowed an eerie gold, and his body twisted. Muscles shifted, bones cracked, and fur spread over his skin. Within seconds, he had fully transformed into a werewolf.
Freya's world tilted as her vision blurred and her head spun—no, no, no, this wasn't real. It couldn't be. It couldn't be real.
Jeffrey reached for her, placing a hand on her shoulder, but the moment he did, everything went black.
Freya collapsed to the floor.
On the screen, Jack's voice continued to speak about her werewolf powers, his words were lost to the silence that swallowed her whole.
The last thing she heard before slipping into unconsciousness was her father's voice, still speaking.
Telling her about her powers, revealing who she truly was—a myth, a legend come to life.
***
Freya jolted awake with a gasp, her eyes snapping open. She sat up abruptly, heart hammering as she scanned the room. Beside her, Jeffrey watched with concern, his gaze only making her pulse race faster.
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. "Is this real?" she whispered. "Or did I just imagine that?"
Jeffrey sighed. "It's real, Freya. During the full moon, you'll transform completely into your werewolf form."
"Are you... are you a werewolf too?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Jeffrey shook his head. "No, I'm not."
Freya wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
"Listen, Freya," Jeffrey continued gently, "you can still live your life normally. Most of the people in this town are werewolves, and you'd never even know because it's against the rules to reveal true forms to humans."
"So, there's no running from this, is there? No way to undo it? I have to accept it?" Freya asked, her voice small.
"Yes. And you're handling it better than most. Some don't take it well at all, but you... you're doing great."
"What about my mom?" Freya's voice cracked.
Jeffrey sighed again. "She's human. She knew she couldn't help you through this, which is why she brought you here. It's safer for you in this town than in the city; the city wouldn't be the right place for you."
The image of Emily's lifeless body flashed in Freya's mind—the deep claw marks, the blood. A cold dread washed over her. "Then... the claws on Emily... her death... was it me?"
"You didn't know what you were doing, Freya. That's exactly why your mother brought you here—to help you learn control before something like that happens again."
A deep, painful silence stretched between them before Freya finally spoke again. "Then I want to learn. I want to be able to control who I am. If I can't change my destiny, then I accept it." She met his eyes. "I want to control it."
Jeffrey nodded, approval flickering across his face. "That's the right choice."
Freya took a deep breath. "Apart from transforming, what else can I do?"
"Because of who you are, you'll develop enhanced abilities: strength, heightened senses, speed. And maybe more. We just have to wait and see what unique powers you possess."
Freya nodded slowly. "I just... need to be alone for a while. I need to clear my head."
Jeffrey stood. "Of course. I'll be downstairs if you need me. Take all the time you need."
The moment the door closed, Freya let out a breath. Tears streamed down her face again as she glanced at her hands.
Then, before her eyes, her fingers twisted, nails elongating into sharp, claw-like fangs only to shrink back a second later.
She pressed her hands against her face, forcing herself to breathe. She had to learn control before she hurt someone again.