Chapter Two – The Awakening
(Raven's POV, Age 10)
I was ten when the dreams stopped feeling like dreams.
Most mornings I woke before my mother, slipping out of bed with a restless energy I couldn't explain. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls, heavy and suffocating. I padded into the kitchen, already dressed for school, hair tangled from tossing in the night.
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and bread, but beneath it I caught something else—iron, smoke, the faint musk of fur. I paced between the counter and the window, staring out at the streets of Duskmoor. The city was waking—vendors shouting in the mist, trams rattling past, children in uniforms hurrying to school. But the city always felt wrong to me. Too loud. Too alive. I could hear everything—the clatter of pots from the neighbours' kitchen, the bark of a dog blocks away, the heartbeat of a man stumbling home drunk. Every sound pressed against me, too sharp, too close, as though the city itself was breathing down my neck.
My mother entered, her robe tied loosely, her hair messy from sleep. She stopped in the doorway, watching me. "You're up early again," she said softly.
"I couldn't sleep." I kept pacing.
She smiled, but her eyes lingered too long, like she was searching for something in me she couldn't name. "You'll wear yourself out, Raven. Sit. Eat."
I sat reluctantly, picking at the toast she placed in front of me. "Do you ever hear things? Far away things?"
Her hand froze on the coffee pot. "What do you mean?"
"Like… voices. Heartbeats. Dogs barking. Even when they're not close."
She forced a laugh, brittle and hollow. "You've got an imagination, that's all."
I frowned. "It's not imagination. It's real."
Her smile faltered. "Eat your breakfast, Raven."
At school, I tried to be normal. I sat in the back of class, doodling wolves in the corners of my notebooks. The teachers said I was "bright but distracted." They didn't know how hard it was to focus when I could hear everything—the scratch of pencils, the sigh of frustration, the quickened heartbeat of the boy who lied about his homework.
Gym was worse. I ran faster than anyone, climbed higher, pushed harder. The other kids stared, whispering.
"Freak," one boy muttered.
I ignored him, focusing on the rope climb. My arms burned, but I reached the top faster than anyone. When I dropped down, the whispers grew louder.
On the playground, a bully shoved me. "Think you're better than us?" he sneered.
My body reacted before I thought. I shoved back, harder. He hit the ground, breath knocked out of him, eyes wide with fear.
That night, the forest came back in my dreams. But it wasn't just a forest—it was Duskmoor's Hollow Veins, the tunnels beneath the city. The walls dripped with black water, the air thick with rot. Wolves circled me, their growls vibrating in my chest. I didn't run this time. I stood still, waiting.
One of them bowed its head, and I felt something inside me bow in return.
Then the voice came, deep and commanding: "You are ours."
The tunnel walls pulsed like veins, shadows crawling across the stone. Hands clawed out from the cracks, skeletal and wet, grasping at my ankles. The wolves' eyes blazed brighter, their jaws opening wider than any animal should. Inside their mouths, I saw faces—human faces, screaming silently, trapped in endless rows of fangs.
I woke with dirt under my nails and claw marks on my sheets.
My parents rushed in, pale and trembling.
"What happened?" my mother whispered, clutching my shoulders.
"Nothing," I said quickly.
My father's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't nothing."
I looked away. "I don't want to talk about it."
They exchanged a look, fear flickering between them.
The next day, walking home from school, I felt it. A presence. Heavy, watching. I turned, but the street was empty. Vendors shouted, children laughed, trams screeched—but beneath it all, I heard the growl.
"Raven?" my mother asked, noticing my pale face. "What's wrong?"
"Someone's watching," I whispered.
She tightened her grip on my hand. "Don't be silly."
But I knew.
That night, I dreamed again. The wolves circled closer, their eyes burning. One lunged, teeth flashing, and I saw my own reflection inside its jaws—my face twisted, my eyes glowing gold.
I woke screaming, my sheets torn, my nails bleeding.
My father held me, his voice trembling. "You're not like other children, Raven."
I stared at him, wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"
He shook his head. "Forget I said that."
But I couldn't forget.
Because I knew, even if they wouldn't tell me— I wasn't like them. I wasn't like anyone.