Shadows of Isolation

The days turned into weeks. The weeks stretched into months.

Christina was only seven, but she could feel the shift in the air, in the way the pack looked at them now—or rather, how they didn't.

Her father had once been a pillar of strength, respected by warriors, honored by the Alpha. Now, he was nothing but a ghost in their eyes.

And Christina?

She was his shadow.

And shadows, as she had come to learn, were easy to overlook.

She felt it everywhere. In the quiet of the streets when people whispered behind her back. In the way eyes slid past her, as if acknowledging her existence would somehow taint them.

But the first time she truly felt invisible was at the marketplace.

The square was alive with the hum of daily trade. Merchants called out their wares, bargaining voices rising over the scent of roasting meats and fresh bread. Warriors strode through, their presence commanding space. Mothers shepherded their children past carts laden with ripe fruits, and laughter rang in the air, bright and unbothered.

Christina stood in the middle of it all, clutching a small leather pouch of coins, waiting.

No one looked her way.

No one spoke to her.

A few months ago, things had been different. She remembered walking through this same square, holding her father's calloused hand as he greeted the pack's warriors with nods of mutual respect. The butcher would slip them extra cuts of meat, the baker would ruffle her hair and place a warm pastry in her hands with a smile.

Now, she was just another mouth to ignore.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and approached the butcher's stall. He was a large man, his apron smeared with blood, his thick hands expertly carving slabs of venison. A warrior stood before him, receiving a fresh cut. Christina watched as the man's calloused fingers wrapped around the thick, marbled meat before he strode away.

She stepped forward.

The butcher's eyes flickered to her for the briefest moment—then past her, as if she weren't even there.

"I'd like to buy some meat," she said, her voice quiet but steady.

The butcher let out a slow breath through his nose, wiping his hands on his apron. "Only got what's left," he muttered.

He gestured to a pile of scraps.

Christina hesitated. Behind him, she could see the better cuts he was saving for others. Thick, rich pieces that could feed a family for days.

But not her. Not her father.

Her fingers curled around the pouch of coins, knuckles whitening.

The laughter of warriors rang behind her. The scent of warm bread and roasted meat taunted her senses.

She could argue. She could insist. But she already knew the answer.

Instead, she counted out the coins with careful fingers, paid for the scraps, and took the tiny bundle wrapped in cloth.

She walked away.

It wasn't until she was halfway home that she let herself blink away the sting behind her eyes.

Christina sat alone.

In the training grounds, where young wolves sparred, throwing punches and dodging with effortless grace.

In the village square, where pups her age tumbled in the dirt, chasing each other under the warm afternoon sun.

She wasn't always alone by choice.

Sometimes, she tried.

She would stand at the edge of the group, waiting for an invitation that never came.

The first time, a boy named Elias noticed her. His dark eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you doing here?"

Christina hesitated. "I just..."

"You don't belong," he said flatly.

The others didn't even pause in their game. They didn't whisper or giggle or make fun of her.

They simply went on, as if she weren't there.

She wasn't invited.

She wasn't wanted.

She sat on the outskirts, watching them laugh and tumble in the dirt. Her small fists clenched in her lap.

She hated them.

Not because they excluded her.

But because they acted like she didn't exist.

She didn't tell her father.

When she came home, she smiled. Told him the market trip went fine. That she just didn't feel like playing today.

She was getting good at pretending.

But one night, she woke to the sound of soft, choked breathing.

The cabin was dark, save for the embers glowing in the fireplace.

She turned in her small bed, peering toward the chair where her father sat. His broad shoulders were hunched, his head in his hands.

The fire cast flickering shadows across his face, illuminating the tightness in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers as he rubbed them over his tired eyes.

He wasn't asleep.

He wasn't resting.

He was breaking.

And he thought she didn't see.

So, she didn't say anything.

She turned onto her side, curling into herself, and made a silent vow.

No one would ever pity her father.

And no one would ever pity her.

If the pack only respected the strong, then she would become strong.

She started watching the warriors train from a distance.

Hiding behind trees, crouching behind fences, memorizing their movements.

She noted the way they stood, the way their feet shifted before they struck. She learned which muscles they relied on, which stances kept them balanced.

At night, she mimicked their forms.

She practiced footwork in the small clearing behind their cabin, bare feet pressing into the dirt. She swung invisible strikes, correcting her stance each time she faltered.

Her arms ached.

Her legs burned.

She kept going.

Because in this pack, the weak were forgotten.

And Christina Stormclaw refused to be forgotten.