The Werewolves

The world has its hidden secrets. It is not built on one reality, but many, layered and concealed from those too blind to see. Humans think they are alone, rulers of their world. But they are not. If the human race exists… then so do we. The werewolves.

The night air wrapped around me as I stood at the cliff’s edge. I inhaled deeply, letting the crisp scent of pine and damp earth fill my lungs. For a fleeting moment, it was peace... the only peace I had. The forest never judged me, never spat cruel words at me. Unlike people.

“Useless bitch.”

“It’s better if you just die.”

“Weak!”

“You should have never existed.”

Those voices... harsh, unforgiving... echoed in my head like a curse that never faded. Words I had heard from my own blood, my own people. They branded me with them until I almost believed it myself. Almost.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I should have never existed.

I gazed down at the village spread beneath the cliff. The flickering fires and warm glow of homes looked beautiful from afar, but to me, it was a cage—a place that reminded me daily that I was unwanted. Werewolves had built this haven for themselves, but even within it, they divided into families, factions of pride and rivalry.

The Family of Archery - my family... famed for their hunting skills and deadly precision.

The Family of Axes - brutes of muscle and strength, makers of weapons.

The Family of Daggers - swift, silent, their blades as quick as their tempers.

The Family of Swordsmen - fighters, warriors, the patrolmen who guarded us from rogues.

And above them all, the Leaders - perfect, flawless, worshipped for their strength and wisdom. The Alpha, the Beta, the Omega.

They were legends I had never seen, but everyone spoke their names with awe. They were everything I wasn’t.

I sighed, bitterness heavy on my tongue. I should have been something. Anything. A skilled archer like my family. A sharp-sensed wolf like the others. Instead, I was nothing. Weak. Half-blind compared to the senses of others. Even my wolf, Cordia, came late in my life... on my eighteenth birthday... and with no memory of the past, no story, no gift. Just like me.

“Maybe they’re right,” I whispered into the night. “Maybe I’m useless.”

'They’re wrong,' Cordia’s voice rose in my head, fierce as always. 'You’re not useless. They just can’t see your value.'

I clenched my fists. Sometimes she gave me comfort. Sometimes, she only reminded me how different I was.

"Shut up, Cordia," I muttered, and she fell silent, though I could feel her disapproval simmering under the surface.

The wind swept through my hair, lifting the strands into the air as if it wanted me to leap. Sometimes, standing there, I wondered what it would feel like to fall. To end the pain of being invisible. But then, the cowardice of wanting to live chained me to the earth again.

“Clary! Where the hell are you?!”

My mother’s voice slammed into my head through telepathy. I flinched, closing my eyes as the sting burned through me. Telepathy was a sacred gift, used between family or mates. She rarely called me with it. A small, pathetic part of me felt glad she remembered I existed at all.

'Maybe they only need you to scrub the floors again,' Cordia muttered dryly.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. 'Probably.'

Turning from the cliff, I shifted into my wolf form. My white fur glowed under the moonlight, marred by the strange circular black mark on my back. It made me stand out... a mark of oddity. I darted into the forest, running hard and fast, if only to pretend I was free. But I knew the truth. My home wasn’t a home... it was a prison.

I am Clary Vertina, second daughter of Hera and George Vertina of the Family of Archery. The disappointment. The mistake. The shadow.

I still remembered the first time I touched a bow. I was fifteen, trembling, my hands awkward. The weapon had felt right in my grasp, but my arrows missed, each shot a failure. Even years later, I could not master it. A Vertina who could not shoot—what bigger shame could there be?

As I crossed into the territory of the Axes, I saw them training under the moon. Their arms, thick with muscle, swung axes with deadly force. Sparks flew from metal against stone as others forged weapons, sweat glistening on their proud faces. I wondered if their pups, still small and clumsy, would one day tower over me too.

Next was the Daggers. Swift shadows moved in the dark, almost too fast for the eye. A girl my age hurled her dagger into a target tree with effortless grace. Perfect aim. My chest tightened. Why couldn’t I be like that? Why did my hands shake when I tried?

My gaze lingered on the dagger embedded in the wood. Something inside me stirred... an urge, sharp and unfamiliar. I wanted to grab it. To feel its weight. To throw it. But the call of my mother yanked me away again.

“Clary!” Her voice snapped in my skull, sharper this time, laced with irritation.

I lowered my head, shame pressing into me, and ran faster. By the time I reached Archery territory, I was already bracing for what awaited.

The moment I stepped into our house, the stares told me everything. My sister Andrea’s eyes burned with disgust, her lips curled in that cruel smile she reserved for me alone. My mother’s glare was sharper than any arrow. My father… he looked away, as always. Silent. Helpless.

My presence had never been a blessing here. Only a burden.

And still, I stayed. Because what else could I do?

'Why do you let them treat you this way?' Cordia hissed, restless in my head.

'Because I have nowhere else to go,' I whispered, my throat raw. 'And because I still hope... just once... they’ll see me.'

Hope. The cruelest weapon of all.