They say every werewolf hears their wolf by fourteen.
I was seventeen when I realized mine might never come.
Some say it's a curse. Others call it weakness. My father—Alpha Victor of the Shadow Pack—called it an abomination. Proof that I was defective. A shameful smear on his bloodline. He told me once, with cold eyes and bloodied knuckles, that the Moon Goddess must've turned her face from me the moment I was born.
He reminded me every chance he got. With his fists. With his words. With the way the whole pack looked away when I limped past them, swollen-eyed and cracked open, but still breathing. Always breathing. Because death would've been too easy. I wasn't allowed to speak unless spoken to. Just a ghost in the Alpha's house. A girl-shaped bruise no one dared to acknowledge.
But my brother Dean never believed that.
He was the only light in a world I was never allowed to be part of. The only one who would slip me stolen scraps of meat after I was refused food, whispered battle stories when no one was listening, and cleaned the cuts I wasn't supposed to survive. He was my very own lifeline.
I didn't have much to offer if I'm being honest. Completely wolfless and nothing more than skin and bones. My long black wavy hair matted down my back was just as dull and lifeless as I was on the inside. My big violet eyes stood out against my pale face. Whether it was out of fear or disgust no one stared at me for too long I was tainted, cursed. Sometimes it came as a good thing, people would shuffle out of my way wanting to avoid touching the plague, the little weak girl. Other times though it put a bright target on me, I wasn't just the Alpha's punching bag I was the pack's. If the laundry got held behind I was to blame, dinner took too long or was overcooked, didn't taste right. It would be my fault even if I hadn't stepped in the kitchen for weeks. Even the omegas outranked me regardless of me being an Alpha's daughter. I was nothing scum, dirt. I lived in the shadows trying to hide away, to be unseen, to be more forgotten than I already am. Some days I wonder what it would be like if my mother was around. If she would be like them, cold and heartless. I like to think she would have been kind, tender and warm. She would have embraced me, protected me, scared off all the shadows of darkness that linger around me. In reality though, I have a feeling she was just as much trapped in these walls as the rest of us. Under a truly evil Alpha who was nothing more than power hungry.
When the invitation went out from the Lycan King himself—a formal ball was to be hosted on my fathers lands to "foster inter-pack peace" or whatever political lie it was wrapped in—our father saw it as a chance to elevate his status. Show off. Impress power.
My father planned for weeks changing around the pack house. Bringing out the best furniture, candles, lanterns, chairs, tables and cutlery we owned. The pack house was cleaned and polished and of course most of the hard cleaning fell upon me. I didn't complain though it meant that I was more useful for activities and wouldn't just be beating for fun. He needed me to be able to move and work. Though I would not be attending the ball which he had made definitely clear by beating me so bad that it broke my jaw and some ribs. In all honesty he just wanted to make sure I had no courage to be seen at all, not even by the servants that day. Though I wouldn't have wanted to attend anyway. My father had kept Dean busy while anticipating the ball so I hadn't seen him, almost a week. Unfortunately that meant that I have barely eaten in three days now, not that I wasn't used to it. Finally though it was the day of the ball and I truly didn't have to lift a finger at all my father did not want to risk any early guest spotting me adding a stain to his image. So here I sat deep in the basement. Past the servants quarters in a very small, damp, dark room that I called mine.
I could hear the wrestling above begin. The vibrations from the music shifting along the walls. The ruffling of feet shuffling across the ground above me. I wondered what it would be like to be in the presence of others to put on a beautiful elegant gown and twirl around but I wasn't delusional. I knew that was a luxury that I would never be granted. The good thing about everything is at least for a while no one would disturb me. It would just be me and the familiar shadows.
Just as I was about to drift off to sleep a loud commotion startled me straight up. Clattering noises and running feet echoed against the hollow ceiling above me. Faint screams could be heard filling the air. Confusion consumed me. I wasn't sure what to do, what was going on. I debated on whether to let the pull of curiosity have me step out of this hidden dark space. But didn't they say curiosity killed the cat or something like that. Just as I made the decision to sneak and see what was going, what I might be up against, Dean busted through the door. Shouting about a rogue attack that had come halfway through the night.
Dean saw it for what it was: a chance to get me out.
Screams split the celebration. The music was still playing when the first body hit the floor. Chaos erupted, warriors shifting mid-spin, blood hitting marble like spilled wine. Our father bellowed commands from the dais, rage and pride in full display.
No one noticed the small, wolfless girl slipping through the servant hall.
Dean had pulled me aside earlier that day. Told me the rumors were true—our father was planning to "solve the problem" I'd become. Permanently.
There wasn't time to feel anything. No grief. No fear. Just movement.
I ran.
Through stone corridors and thick smoke. Through a tunnel Dean swore would lead beyond the border. Through the sharp sting of cold air and branches clawing at my face. He stayed behind—to hold them off, to protect me, to give me a chance.
"Don't stop running, Karm," he'd said as he pressed a satchel into my hands. "You're more than what he made you believe. You are worthy."
The sky was moonless, like it knew I needed darkness to run. My heartbeat roared louder than the wind as I crept past the outer patrol line. I'd memorized their shifts for weeks, watched every blind spot, counted every step.
I wanted out, though I never had the guts to really try—till now.
This night—the night—I didn't want to just survive.
I wanted out.
I didn't cry. Couldn't. I shoved the ache down, along with the fear, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
I wasn't strong. I wasn't fast. I wasn't even a real wolf.
But I had will.
And sometimes, when your whole life's been about surviving...
You finally decide it's time to live.