The hunger did not arrive like the stories said it would.
There was no sudden rage, no red haze, no violent craving that sent me clawing at walls or gnashing my teeth. Instead, it crept in slowly, settling beneath my skin like a low, persistent hum. It made my thoughts feel crowded and my body restless, as if something inside me was awake while the rest of the pack slept.
I noticed it first when I tried to lie still.
The bed beneath me was narrow and unfamiliar, the thin mattress pressing against muscles that ached from training. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, counting each inhale, each exhale, the way I had when fear used to keep me awake at night. It didn't work. My senses refused to dim. Every sound carried weight, the shifting of bodies in nearby rooms, the steady rhythm of heartbeats, the wind brushing against the den's outer walls.
It was too much.
I sat up, pressing my feet to the floor, grounding myself in the coolness of stone.
The ache in my chest pulsed again, not painful, not sharp, but heavy, like a question I couldn't answer. Whatever this hunger was, it wasn't asking to be fed. It was asking to be heard.
I slipped outside without waking anyone.
The night greeted me with open space and quiet shadows. The forest stretched beyond the den, vast and dark, yet it did not frighten me the way it once might have. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, and when I stepped onto the soil barefoot, something inside me eased.
I walked deeper between the trees, letting the noise fade behind me.
With every step, the pressure in my chest loosened. The hunger softened, no longer restless, just present. I realized then that it wasn't emptiness I felt. It was awareness.
A heightened sense of everything around me, the way the ground sloped beneath my feet, the rustle of leaves overhead, the quiet movement of animals hidden in the undergrowth.
"You shouldn't wander alone."
His voice came from behind me, calm and steady.
I didn't jump. I didn't turn immediately either.
I had known he was there before he spoke, the shift in the air announcing him long before his presence became visible.
"I wasn't wandering," I said finally. "I was listening."
He stepped closer, and the weight of him settled around me like a held breath. The alpha's presence was not loud, but it was absolute, a quiet authority that pressed against instinct itself. I waited for the familiar reaction, the instinctive pull to submit, the rush of fear or obedience I had seen in others.
It didn't come.
His silence stretched, thick with scrutiny.
"You're calm," he said at last. "Most new wolves are not."
"I don't feel calm," I replied honestly. "I feel… aware."
He circled me slowly, his steps deliberate, his gaze sharp. I could feel him testing me, not physically, but in ways I didn't yet understand. His dominance brushed against me again, firmer this time, a wave meant to provoke a response.
I remained still.
The pressure met something solid inside me and stopped.
His brow furrowed. "Interesting."
I swallowed. "Is that bad?"
"Not necessarily," he said. "But it is dangerous."
"For me?" I asked.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, the controlled power in every breath he took.
"For everyone," he answered quietly.
The hunger stirred again at his words, not in defiance, but recognition.
"You don't burn," he continued. "Most new wolves burn themselves raw. They lash out, lose control, exhaust their strength before they learn restraint.
"I don't want to burn," I said. "I want to understand."
His gaze sharpened, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"Understanding has a cost."
"I know," I replied. "So does ignorance."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The forest seemed to hold its breath around us, the night deepening, the stars hidden behind drifting clouds. I felt exposed beneath his attention, as though he could see straight through the fragile image the pack still held of me.
"You are different," he said finally. "And difference invites attention."
"I've had attention my whole life," I said softly. "It never protected me."
Something in his expression shifted, too subtle to name.
"You should go back," he said. "Tomorrow will be harder."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because they are beginning to notice you," he replied. "And when a pack notices something new, it decides whether to shape it… or break it."
He turned away before I could respond, disappearing between the trees with silent efficiency. I stood there long after he left, the quiet hunger settling into something calmer, steadier.
When I returned to the den, sleep came more easily.
But even as I drifted off, I understood something fundamental had changed. The hunger wasn't a weakness. It wasn't a flaw.
It was a warning..