Rain has a way of anchoring the past. Every time the sky opens up and the air turns damp, Dyla doesn't just remember that night—she relives it. It wasn't the smell of cedar or the pine needles underfoot that lingered. No, it was that sharp, iron tang of blood mixing with the cold rain. The smell of a dying Pack and a father's final breath.
At twenty, Dyla was a ghost in her own home. The Crescent Moon Pack valued teeth, claws, and the raw power of the shift. Dyla had none. She was the Alpha's daughter, a high-born warrior by blood, yet trapped in a human shell that refused to break. To the others, she was a 'runt,' a defect in a lineage of apex predators. To her father, Eamon, she was simply his world.
But in their world, love was a luxury that didn't stop silver blades.
The night it all went to hell, the moon was choked out by heavy, suffocating clouds. There was no warning howl, no scent of intruders on the wind. The rot had already started from the inside.
Dyla was in her room, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows against the walls as she read. Then, the silence broke. It wasn't a roar of battle; it was a single, high-pitched scream of agony that was cut short by a sickening thud.
Her heart didn't just beat; it slammed against her ribs like a panicked animal in a cage. Her fingers trembled so violently she almost tore the curtains as she pulled them aside. Below, in the courtyard where she'd watched the warriors train since childhood, the shadows were moving. They were jagged, violent, and covered in red.
"Father," she whispered. The word felt like dry ash in her throat.
She didn't grab a knife. She didn't look for a bow. She knew she was useless in a fight. Driven by a raw, hollow terror, she bolted. Her bare feet slapped against the cold stone of the grand staircase, the chill of the storm already seeping through the heavy oak doors of the main hall.
When she hit the bottom, the doors burst inward. The wind shrieked into the room, bringing with it the stench of wet fur and fresh slaughter.
In the center of the hall stood Alpha Eamon.
He looked like a fallen god. Heaving, gasping, his chest covered in deep gashes. Five wolves—men he had called brothers only hours ago—circled him like vultures. But Dyla's eyes weren't on them. They were fixed on the man standing behind the circle, calmly wiping a dark, wet blade on his sleeve.
"Vargus," Dyla breathed, her voice barely a shadow.
The Beta. Her father's shadow. The man who had shared their bread and guarded their secrets.
"Run, Dyla!" Eamon's voice was a guttural roar, thick with blood. He didn't turn to look at her; he couldn't afford to break eye contact with the traitor. "Get out! Now!"
"No!" she screamed, her voice cracking as she stumbled forward.
Vargus looked up. A cold, hollow amusement flickered in his eyes. "Look at that. The runt arrived just in time for the finale."
"Why, Vargus?" Eamon growled, stepping forward to shield Dyla, despite the blood pouring from his side. "After everything..."
"Power isn't a gift, Eamon. It's a right of the strong," Vargus sneered, flicking his hand to tighten the circle. "You've turned soft. Coddling this... this human error. A Pack is only as strong as its Alpha's bloodline. And yours is tainted by her."
"She is my daughter!" Eamon bellowed. He began to shift, his body twisting, bones snapping and grinding as he fought to unleash the wolf.
Vargus didn't give him the chance.
In one blurred, vicious motion, Vargus lunged. He didn't use claws. He used a silver-tipped spear, hidden until the very last second. With a wet, crunching sound, the tip tore through Eamon's chest, piercing the heart before the fur could even cover his skin.
Dyla's world shattered. A scream tore from her lungs, a sound so primal it didn't feel like it came from a human throat. "FATHER!"
Eamon slumped. The light in his eyes didn't fade; it was extinguished. He looked at Dyla one last time, his lips twitching into a silent, desperate command: Run.
But she couldn't. Her knees hit the cold stone, and she collapsed into the spreading pool of her father's blood. The silence that followed was louder than the storm outside.
Vargus stepped over the body, his boot sinking into Eamon's chest as he yanked the spear free with a sickening squelch. He looked down at Dyla, his face twisted in a mask of pure disgust.
"Pick her up," Vargus tossed the command to the wolves. "Let's see if the runt's blood is as useless as her spirit."
Vargus didn't just give an order; he spat it.
The two wolves who grabbed Dyla weren't gentle. Their fingers, stained with her father's lifeblood, dug into her shoulders like iron hooks. She didn't fight them. She couldn't. Her mind was stuck in a loop—the sound of the spear, the light dying in Eamon's eyes, the smell of copper in the air. She was a hollow shell being dragged across a cold floor.
"Let me go!" The words felt like broken glass in her throat. It wasn't a scream; it was a pathetic, dying rasp.
They hauled her to the center of the hall, forcing her to stand before the man who had just dismantled her world. Vargus stood over her father's mangled corpse, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the stones. He looked at the gathered Pack—some were panting with the high of the kill, others were trembling in the corners—and he smiled. It was the smile of a monster finally wearing a crown.
"Look at this!" Vargus's voice boomed, shaking the very rafters. "Tonight, we didn't just kill a man. We cut out the cancer that was eating us alive. Alpha Eamon was a fool. He traded our strength for sentiment. He protected a defect, a human stain in a bloodline of kings."
He pointed a jagged finger at Dyla. She was a mess of salt, rain, and her father's blood.
"She has no wolf. She has no place here," Vargus growled. He leaned in, his breath smelling of stale meat. "Tear it off. If she doesn't have the soul of a wolf, she doesn't deserve the mark of the Moon."
One of the traitors stepped forward. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed Dyla's forearm and drove his claws into her skin. He didn't just scratch; he dug. With a slow, agonizing pull, he shredded the skin where her Crescent Moon tattoo sat, kiling the only thing that tied her to her home.
The scream that left Dyla's lips was inhuman. It was a raw, jagged sound that seemed to split the night. The physical pain was a white-hot flash, but the realization was worse: she was officially a ghost. No Pack. No father. No name.
Vargus watched the blood drip from her arm with a dark, twisted satisfaction. "You think I'll kill you, Dyla? No. That's too kind. Dead girls don't suffer. And I want you to feel every second of your failure."
He turned to his henchmen. "Dump her. Outside the borders. Near the Black Mire. If the cold doesn't take her, the rot will. Let her die in the mud like the animal she is."
They didn't carry her. They dragged her through the dirt, her heels leaves trails in the mud. By the time they reached the edge of the territory, Dyla was barely conscious. They tossed her into the muck near the swamp like a piece of refuse. A final, mocking laugh followed them as they retreated toward the warmth of the fires she would never see again.
Dyla lay face-down in the sludge. The rain was a relentless hammer, beating against her broken body. She stayed there for a long time, staring at the black water of the mire. Her arm throbbed, her heart was a void, and her lungs felt like they were filled with lead.
Most girls would have died there. Most would have let the swamp take them.
But as the cold seeped into her bones, something else flickered. Not a wolf—not yet—but a spark of pure, unadulterated hate. It was cold. It was black. And it was stronger than the pain.
She forced herself up. Her muscles screamed, her stomach was a knot of hunger, but she stood. She didn't look back at the Pack. She looked up at the sky, her hair matted to her face, her silver eyes burning with a light that hadn't been there an hour ago.
She wasn't a runt anymore. She wasn't an Alpha's daughter. She was an exile. A survivor.
"I'm coming back," she whispered, the rain catching the words and carrying them into the dark. "Not to lead you. Not to save you. But to burn every single one of you."
She turned her back on the only life she had ever known and stepped into the crushing darkness of the forest. The girl was dead. The Black Wolf was just beginning to stir.