They started calling Kaida a lunatic when she was sixteen, but the truth was, she had been different long before she understood the word.
Her wolf never slept. It paced endlessly beneath her skin, a constant pressure behind her ribs, like claws tapping against bone. While other female wolves were praised for serenity—calm hearts, nurturing instincts, gentle submission—Kaida's wolf snarled at the moon as if daring it to challenge her. She woke every night drenched in sweat, pulse racing, senses sharpened as though she were perpetually on the brink of a fight.
The elders noticed.
They said her wolf was too aggressive for a female beta. That she lacked balance. That she would be dangerous if not closely monitored. Kaida learned early how to hold her tongue, how to lower her gaze, how to appear smaller than she felt. But no matter how still she stood, her wolf never stilled with her. It always lurked with a fire that could not be ignored.
It watched.
It waited.
The pack treated her like a blade kept in a sheath—useful, but unsettling. She was called upon during patrols that skirted danger, sent to mediate disputes where tempers ran hot, praised for her competence and quietly warned not to step out of line.
But Rowan… Rowan ignored the whispers.
When he trained her, he didn't soften his strikes or temper his expectations. When she bled, he nodded with approval instead of concern. When she snarled back at an Alpha twice her size, he smiled like he was proud.
That was when the lunatic label began to stick.
And deep inside, Kaida's wolf smiled too—because madness, she was learning, was often just power people didn't know how to control.