The pain didn't stop when Kael walked away.
It followed Elara like a second skin—hot, throbbing, alive. Every step deeper into the Ebute Metta reserve felt like dragging her heart through broken glass. The rejection words echoed in her skull: I reject you, Elara Adebayo, as my mate.
Her wolf—new, raw, furious—snarled back inside her mind. He lies. We are whole. He is weak.
Elara didn't know how to answer. She barely knew how to breathe.
The moon was still high, fat and mocking, painting the trees in silver and shadow. She stumbled over roots, palms scraping bark, until the forest thinned into scrubland bordering the rail lines. A goods train rumbled past somewhere distant, its horn a low mournful wail that matched the one building in her throat.
Then the change hit.
It started in her spine—a crack like lightning down her back. She dropped to all fours, gasping. Bones shifted. Not gently. Not like in the movies where it's quick and poetic. This was grinding, tearing, reshaping. Her shoulders widened, ribs expanded with pops that made her scream—until the scream became a howl.
Fur erupted in waves: black at the roots, silver tips catching moonlight like knife edges. Her hands—paws now—clawed the earth. Claws longer than her fingers had been. Teeth lengthened into fangs that cut her own lips bloody.
The world exploded in scent.
Wet soil. Diesel from the tracks. Roasting suya two kilometers away. Blood—her own, still leaking from the shoulder bite that never fully healed. And underneath it all, faint but inescapable: sandalwood and storm rain. Kael. Even miles away now, the bond refused to snap clean.
Her new body trembled. Legs too long, balance wrong. She tried to stand—fell. Tried again. Paws slipped in mud.
Run, the wolf urged. Run or die.
So she ran.
Not gracefully. Not like the pack wolves she'd glimpsed in visions from the bond. This was desperate, stumbling, crashing through underbrush. Branches whipped her muzzle. Thorns tore fur. But pain sharpened everything. The moon pulled her forward like a leash.
She didn't know how long she ran—minutes, hours. Time blurred under the shift. Eventually the forest gave way to the edges of Yaba, where abandoned construction sites met shanties. She slowed near a half-built block of flats, concrete skeleton rising like bones against the sky.
There she collapsed behind a stack of rusted iron sheets. Panting. Chest heaving. The shift reversed as suddenly as it came—pain again, but duller this time. Bones shrank. Fur receded. She curled naked in the dirt, shivering, human once more.
Dawn was close. The sky bruised purple.
Elara pressed her forehead to cool concrete and cried. Not loud. Quiet, broken sobs. The rejection wasn't just words anymore. It was physical. A hollow in her chest where the golden thread used to pulse strong. Now it was frayed, thin, leaking pain with every heartbeat.
She couldn't go home. Not like this. Auntie would see the blood, the torn clothes, the wild look in her eyes. Questions would come. Then fear. Then maybe police. Or worse—someone who knew about things that went bump under the moon.
She had nowhere.
So she stayed hidden until the first call to prayer echoed from a nearby mosque. Then she scavenged: an old wrapper someone had discarded, faded blue Ankara she tied around herself like a makeshift dress. Her phone—miraculously still in the pocket of her ruined jeans back in the forest—was gone. Lost in the shift.
Hunger hit next. Not normal hunger. Bone-deep, feral need for meat. Raw. Bloody.
She slipped through back alleys toward the main road, avoiding streetlights. Lagos was waking: okadas buzzing, market women setting up stalls, generators coughing to life. Normal life. Her life, once.
Now impossible.
She found a butcher's stall on the edge of a market. The man was unloading cow legs from a wheelbarrow. Blood dripped onto the ground.
Elara's mouth watered so hard she tasted iron.
She had no money. Nothing.
The butcher glanced up. "Wetìn, sister? You wan buy?"
She shook her head, backing away before the scent overwhelmed her.
She ended up at the rail tracks again, where stray dogs fought over scraps. She watched them, envious. Then—shamefully—she snatched a discarded piece of offal from the dirt when they scattered at a passing train.
She ate it. Raw. Fast. Gagging at first, then ravenous. Strength returned in waves. The wolf purred approval inside her.
Better, it said. We survive.
By midday she was back in the reserve edges, hiding in an abandoned kiosk near the water. She slept fitfully, dreams full of amber eyes and a voice saying reject.
When she woke, the sun was low again. Another night coming.
And with it, another pull.
Not toward Kael this time.
Toward something else.
A scent on the wind: smoke, old blood, motor oil, and wolf. Multiple wolves. Not Ironfang. Different. Rougher.
Rogues.
Elara's wolf perked up. Pack? No. Family? Maybe.
She followed it.
Through backstreets, under bridges, past the sprawl where the city met swamp. The scent grew stronger near a cluster of shipping containers rusted red, stacked like forgotten toys behind a scrapyard in Apapa.
She crouched behind a tire pile and watched.
Three figures moved in the shadows.
One tall, dreads tied back, skin like polished ebony, eyes glowing faint yellow even in daylight's fade. He carried himself like he owned the ground.
Another shorter, wiry, female, braids swinging, a scar slicing her left eyebrow. She was sharpening a machete casually.
The third: young male, barely out of his teens, jittery, sniffing the air.
They were eating. Roasted goat from a fire drum. The smell made Elara's stomach cramp.
The tall one suddenly froze. Head tilted.
"Who's there?" His voice carried—deep, calm, dangerous.
Elara's heart slammed.
She could run.
But the wolf said stay.
She stepped out, hands raised, wrapper slipping off one shoulder to show the bite scar—still red, angry.
The female stood first. Machete lowered but ready. "New blood. Smells... fresh turned."
The tall one stepped closer. Inhaled. Eyes narrowed. "Ironfang scent on you. But not pack. Bitten?"
Elara nodded once. Voice hoarse. "Three weeks. Rejected tonight."
A beat of silence.
Then the young one laughed—sharp, surprised. "Alpha Kael rejected his mate? Man's lost his mind."
The female snorted. "Or his balls."
The tall one didn't laugh. He studied Elara like she was a puzzle. "I'm Jude. This is Tayo—" he nodded at the female "—and that's Chidi. We don't take in strays easy. But you smell... different. Stronger than most new turns."
Elara met his gaze. "I don't want pity. I want to live."
Jude's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Then prove you can. Shift. Right here. No screaming."
Elara swallowed. She hadn't shifted on command yet. Only when the moon forced it.
But the wolf surged forward eagerly. Show them.
She closed her eyes. Focused on the heat in her chest. On the frayed bond. On anger.
Pain came—less this time. Controlled.
Fur. Claws. Fangs.
She stood as wolf: black-silver, larger than before, eyes glowing like moonlight on water.
The three stared.
Tayo whistled low. "Ẹgbọ́n. That's no ordinary bitten."
Chidi edged back. "She smells like... old power. Like the stories."
Jude crouched to her level. Met her eyes.
"Shift back."
She did. Faster. Less pain.
Naked again, but she didn't cover herself. Let them see the scars. The strength.
Jude nodded slowly. "You stay tonight. Eat. Tomorrow we see if you fit. Rogues don't do charity. But we do respect strength."
He tossed her a spare shirt from a crate. Oversized, smelling of smoke and wolf.
Elara caught it. Pulled it on.
For the first time since the bite, the hollow in her chest eased—just a fraction.
Not pack. Not yet.
But not alone.
As the fire crackled and goat meat passed hand to hand, Elara ate like she was starving. Which she was.
And somewhere across the city, in a guarded compound overlooking the lagoon, Kael Okafor sat alone on his balcony.
Whiskey untouched.
Wolf restless.
The bond—frayed but unbroken—pulsed with new echoes.
He felt her eat. Felt her shift. Felt her find others.
His claws dug into the railing.
He had rejected her.
But she refused to disappear.
And deep down, his wolf whispered the truth he wouldn't admit:
We made a mistake.