Chapter 1: A Wolf's Burden

The moon hung heavy in the night sky, its pale light cutting through the thick canopy of trees.

Elara Moonfang stood at the edge of the clearing, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The forest was silent save for the occasional rustle of leaves.

She had tried to shift into her wolf form countless times before, but tonight—tonight was supposed to be different.

Her heart pounded in her chest, an agonizing rhythm that matched her frustration with every beat, the transformation beckoned, but every attempt was met with failure.

Her body trembled, her bones aching as they refused to obey her will. Her wolf—a powerful creature that should have been an extension of herself—remained dormant, mocking her weakness.

Her father, Luca, stood off to the side, arms crossed, his eyes filled with disappointment.

"Again," he said coldly, the word slicing through the silence. "You'll never be more than a shadow of the Moonfang name, this is pathetic."

Elara flinched, her shoulders sagging under the weight of his words, she had always been the disappointment, the one who could never measure up.

Her family, her pack, all expected strength, dominance—the traits of a true Moonfang wolf. But she? She had none of those things.

"Try again," Luca growled, his voice full of contempt. "Atleast prove you're worth something."

Elara turned her gaze to the forest floor, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, she wanted to disappear into the earth itself.

Instead, she tried once more, her body contorting in effort. This time, she felt it—her wolf's presence flickering deep inside her, a light that had long been dimmed but as quickly as it flared, it faded, leaving her body frozen in the form of a girl—weak, trembling, and utterly inadequate.

She fell to her knees, her head sinking into her hands. The pain in her chest was sharp, unbearable, a constant reminder of how alone she was.

It wasn't just her wolf that rejected her—it was her family, her pack. The world itself had cast her aside.

"You're pathetic," Luca muttered again, his voice growing distant as he turned away.

A voice stirred within her—a soft, gentle whisper of hope that perhaps she could still find something worth fighting for but it was drowned out by the crushing reality of her isolation.

The night air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the usual crispness of the mountain winds weighed down by an impending storm. Clouds rolled in slowly, swallowing the moonlight and casting long, shifting shadows across the Moonfang Territory.

Elara stood at the edge of the training grounds, her bare feet sinking slightly into the cool, damp soil. The sounds of growls and snapping jaws filled the air as young wolves clashed in the open field, their bodies rippling with power as they fought for dominance. Her brothers and sisters were among them—strong, agile, fierce. They moved like warriors, seamless and brutal, while she lingered in the shadows, unseen and forgotten.

She wasn't weak, not truly but in Moonfang, where strength was currency and savagery a virtue, her kind of power—silent, unseen, delicate—was worthless.

"Elara!"

The bark of her father's voice made her flinch. She turned just in time to see Luca Moonfang, her father, stepping toward her. His golden eyes, burning with the intensity of a wolf in his prime, locked onto her with disappointment.

"You're standing there again," he said, voice low but sharp. "Watching. Always watching."

She swallowed, her throat tightening. "I was trying to learn—"

"Learn?" He scoffed, glancing toward the warriors. "You should be out there fighting, not cowering at the edges like some feeble pup."

She clenched her fists. He didn't understand. No one did. She wasn't afraid of fighting—she was afraid of what came after.

She was afraid of the way the pain would settle in her bones and refuse to leave, of the way her body betrayed her when she tried to shift, her wolf weaker than the others, as if it had been born incomplete.

"Father, I train every day," she whispered, but it sounded like an excuse even to her own ears.

"You train everyday and yet you still fail," he said coldly. "You shame me, Elara."

The words cut deeper than any claw ever could.

Before she could respond, a shrill cry split the air.

A young boy, barely past shifting age, was thrown to the ground by a larger wolf. The impact sent him sprawling, and he whimpered as he struggled to get up.

Victor Damon, one of the pack's most promising warrior stood over him, his teeth bared in a wicked grin.

"You're too weak," Damon sneered, lifting his foot as if to stomp down on the boy's ribs.

Elara's heart clenched. The boy's pain—it was like she could feel it, curling in her stomach like a sickness.

Before she knew what she was doing, she moved.

As she rushed between them, her hands catching Damon's wrist just as his foot came down. The moment they touched, something sparked inside her—a surge of raw emotion, anger, hatred, something dark that didn't belong to her. It crashed through her, dizzying and intense, like drowning in someone else's rage.

Damon recoiled as if burned, his eyes flashing in alarm. "What the hell was that?"

Elara gasped, stumbling back. The boy on the ground whimpered and crawled away.

A heavy silence fell over the training grounds. All eyes were on her.

Her father stepped forward, his expression dark. "What… did you do?"

Elara's hands trembled. The warmth of Damon's anger still lingered, foreign and unsettling.

This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. She had felt emotions before—others' emotions.

She had sensed fear, sorrow, even guilt radiating from the pack but this was different. This was power.

And it terrified her.

"I—I don't know," she stammered.

Damon wiped his wrist against his chest, as if shaking off something vile. "She's a freak," he muttered. "A deviant."

The word struck like a curse. The warriors murmured among themselves, their gazes shifting from her to her father.

Luca stepped closer, towering over her.

"You're weak and now this? A deviant" he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried more weight than any shout. "I regret having you as a daughter."

The rejection came not as a shout, not as a punishment, but as a simple, unwavering truth.

Something inside Elara shattered.

She felt it—her wolf—curling away into the depths of her soul, retreating like a wounded thing.

The crowd dispersed, whispers trailing after them. Even her siblings turned away. She was alone again.

The storm finally broke.

Thunder rolled in the distance as fat raindrops began to fall, mingling with the tears she refused to shed.

She turned and walked toward the edge of the woods, toward solitude, toward the only place she truly belonged—the darkness.

Because if she was a deviant, if she was forsaken, then maybe she was meant to be alone.

And maybe it was time she accepted it.