An Unforgiving World

The pack had once called her father a hero.

Now, they called him a burden.

Christina heard it in their whispers.

Saw it in their averted gazes.

Felt it in the empty space between them and her father—the invisible line they refused to cross.

But what hurt most wasn't their cruelty.

It was their indifference.

She could have handled anger, scorn, even disgust. At least those emotions meant they still acknowledged him.

But they didn't.

To them, he no longer existed.

And soon, they would expect her to fade away, too.

But Christina Stormclaw had no intention of disappearing.

The days melted into each other, each one darker than the last, as Christina settled back into the rhythm of her new reality. The laughter of the pack had become a distant memory, a haunting echo that brought with it both nostalgia and bitterness.

She had once been a part of their world, a child wrapped in warmth and acceptance. Now, the coldness of their stares pierced her heart, turning her days into a cycle of isolation.

The Alpha hadn't visited in months.

Not since the ceremony.

The ceremony where he had honored her father for his service. Where he had spoken of loyalty, gratitude, and respect.

Where he had stood before the pack and praised him as a warrior among warriors.

It had all been empty words.

Words that faded as quickly as they had been spoken.

Christina sat by the window, staring out at the village. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the dirt paths. Warriors walked in pairs, apprentices trailing behind them, eager to learn. The scent of roasted meat drifted from the marketplace, mixing with the earthy aroma of the forest beyond.

She watched them move past their home, their gazes never straying toward the small, worn-down cabin.

As if it didn't exist.

As if her father didn't exist.

She turned her head slightly, glancing toward the fireplace.

Her father sat in his chair beside the fire, staring into the flames, lost in a world that Christina could no longer reach. His once-powerful form was hunched, shoulders slumped, hands resting in his lap. The firelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines that hadn't been there before.

He was silent.

Still.

A part of him had vanished the day he lost his legs.

Christina could feel it.

And she knew the rest of the pack could feel it too.

The man who had once led their warriors into battle now needed help to move, to eat, to live.

And the pack didn't care.

To them, he was already dead.

The house was cramped and dim, its walls echoing with memories that felt like a weight pressing down on her. Christina often found herself drifting into dreams of a time when her father was the epitome of strength, when his voice could rally the pack into action. Now, it was a whisper, dulled by the shadows that enveloped him.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground, Christina felt the familiar pang of hunger gnawing at her belly. The rations had dwindled, their meager supplies reduced to nothing more than stale bread and scraps. She had tried to keep her father's spirits high, to reassure him that the Alpha was still providing, that the pack still cared. But each lie twisted in her throat, an ache she couldn't shake.

She was fetching water one afternoon when she heard them.

The warriors.

Laughing.

She stopped behind a wooden stall, listening, her fingers tightening around the handle of the water jug.

"I heard the Alpha finally cut off his rations," one said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Why waste food on someone who doesn't fight?"

"Should've done it sooner," another muttered. "Pity kept him fed, not respect."

Laughter followed.

Short. Sharp. Cruel.

Christina felt her pulse hammer in her throat.

She wanted to march up to them, demand they take back their words—make them see how wrong they were.

But she didn't.

Because she knew.

Knew that if she stormed up to them, they wouldn't look at her with shame.

They'd look at her with amusement.

Or worse.

Pity.

So she swallowed her rage and kept walking.

When she returned home, she set the food on the table.

Her father glanced at it, then at her. "The Alpha is still providing?"

She forced a smile. Nodded.

And he let himself believe it.

her heart heavy with the knowledge that she was powerless against their disdain.

Whenever she brought food home, her excuse remains the same. She lies about where she got it.

Told her father the Alpha was still providing. That the pack still cared. And he let himself believe it, his face lighting up with a flicker of hope that made her ache even more.

But the truth had a way of unraveling under pressure.

The rations got smaller. Then, they stopped completely.

The first night with no food, her father pretended he wasn't hungry, his gentle smile a mask for the anxiety that lined his features. The second night, he tried to give her his share, insisting that he could manage, that it was fine. By the third night, Christina knew she had to do something.

So she stole.

It started with small things—a piece of bread left unattended, a fallen fruit at the marketplace. Each item she took felt like a small victory, a desperate act to keep her father alive.

But hunger was a beast.

So as the gnawing hunger grew, so did her desperation, and soon, she had to take more.

She was careful. Always careful.

Until the day she wasn't.

A hand grabbed her wrist.

Rough. Unforgiving.

She twisted, tried to run, but the grip was iron.

"Thief."

The butcher's voice was cold, and Christina stood frozen, a stolen apple clutched tightly in her small hand.

She opened her mouth—to explain, to beg, she didn't know...

But then she saw them.

The pack.

Watching.

Not with anger.

Not with sympathy.

But with disgust.

"She's his daughter," someone muttered. "I'm not surprised."

Her stomach twisted.

Not from hunger.

From something deeper.

The butcher let her go. Not because he forgave her, but because she wasn't even worth punishing.

She ran home.

Ran past the warriors, past the marketplace, past the life that had already cast her aside.

And when she reached the small, broken house that barely felt like home anymore—

She made a promise.

She would never be looked down on again.

She would never be weak.

She would never beg.

Because in an unforgiving world, only the strong survived.

And Christina Stormclaw would survive.