1: THE HUMAN GIRL

CAMILA

Everything started three years ago—though sometimes it feels like my life began long before that, the moment the world decided I was disposable.

I don’t remember being born. I don’t remember warm arms or lullabies or a name whispered with love. What I remember—what I’ve been told—is that I was found in a trashcan behind an underground club, wrapped in rags soaked with rain and rot, crying so weakly that most people must have thought I was already dying.

The woman who found me wasn’t my mother. Not really.

She was human, like me, but that was the only thing we shared.

She worked in underground clubs owned by wolves—dark places hidden beneath cities and forests, where smoke curled thick in the air and power was bought with bodies and silence. She was a drug addict. Alcohol clung to her skin like a second scent, sharp and sour, mixed with cheap perfume and desperation. Wolves laughed around her. Men and women who were stronger, faster, born sacred looked at her like entertainment at best, filth at worst.

She looked down at me that night and smiled.

I sometimes wonder if that smile was real—or if it was just another performance she’d learned to survive.

She took me home.

At first, I think she imagined she was saving me. That she could be better. That she could pull us both out of the mess we were in. But hope doesn’t last long when hunger, addiction, and debt are constant companions.

I became a burden quickly.

Raising a child meant food she couldn’t afford. Time she didn’t have. Responsibility she didn’t want. And I learned, very early on, that love was conditional—fragile—and that survival meant obedience.

So I grew up as less of a daughter and more of a servant.

I cooked meals that were never good enough. I cleaned floors that never stayed clean. I learned how to move quietly, how to disappear into corners, how to read moods before they turned dangerous. If I was too slow, too clumsy, too tired, punishment followed.

Sometimes it was a sharp hand against my back.

Sometimes fingers twisted into my hair until my scalp burned.

Most often, it was words.

*Useless.*

*Worthless.*

*Nothing.*

Words sink deeper than bruises. They stay longer. They become part of you if you’re not careful.

The house always smelled wrong—stale smoke, mildew, sweat, spilled alcohol that seeped into the floorboards and never left. When wolves came by to collect debts or favors, the air grew heavier. Their presence pressed down on me like a weight, their voices too loud, their laughter too sharp. They never touched me—not like that—but their eyes followed me, assessing, measuring.

I learned how to keep my head down.

I learned how to survive.

And yet, even in that suffocating world, something stubborn inside me refused to die.

Books became my escape. Torn pages, old manuals, anything I could get my hands on. I read in corners, under dim lights, scribbling notes on scraps of paper I hid beneath loose floorboards. I studied when the house was loud and when it was silent. I studied when my hands shook from exhaustion and when my stomach growled from hunger.

Because I knew one thing with absolute certainty:

I was not meant to stay there.

Every day, I whispered promises to myself.

*You will be better.*

*You will escape.*

*You will be more than this.*

My body was human—weak, fragile compared to sacred races—but my will was not. I memorized everything. I practiced speaking clearly, standing straight, refusing to let fear fold me in on myself. Education became my rebellion. Knowledge became my shield.

And then—against every odd, every rule of this world—it worked.

My grades were exceptional. Outstanding. Impossible, some said. And one morning, when the sun slipped weakly through a cracked window, a letter arrived.

A scholarship.

To Lunaris Academy.

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. Lunaris wasn’t just a school—it was legend. A place for sacred races. Wolves, witches, fairies, vampires. Humans didn’t belong there. Humans weren’t chosen.

I reread the letter again and again, my heart hammering, my breath shallow.

Housing. Education. Protection.

They would *accommodate* a human student.

I pressed the letter to my chest and laughed—quietly, breathlessly—afraid the sound might shatter the moment.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just surviving.

I was being offered a future.

I didn’t know then that stepping into Lunaris Academy would also be the first time I learned how cruel hope could be.

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Lunaris felt unreal.

The moment I crossed its borders, the air changed—cooler, cleaner, scented with pine and fresh stone. Sunlight filtered through towering trees, catching on crystal windows and ancient carvings etched into the academy walls. Magic hummed softly beneath everything, like a living heartbeat.

I stood there, gripping my bag, suddenly very aware of how small I was.

Students moved around me effortlessly. Fairies darted through the air, wings shimmering. Wolves walked with quiet dominance, every step confident, powerful. Witches radiated controlled magic. Vampires watched from shadows, eyes sharp and knowing.

And me?

A human girl with secondhand clothes and too many dreams.

Eyes turned toward me.

Curious.

Indifferent.

Disdainful.

I felt it immediately—that subtle pressure, that unspoken judgment. *She doesn’t belong here.*

Maybe they were right.

But for once, I didn’t let it crush me.

I lifted my chin and stepped forward.

I had earned this place.

I moved carefully through the halls, memorizing routes, listening, observing. Lunaris was beautiful—but it was also dangerous. Sacred races didn’t need to bare their teeth to assert dominance. Sometimes a look was enough.

Lost in my thoughts, I turned a corner too quickly—

And slammed straight into someone solid.

The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. I staggered back, heart leaping into my throat.

“I— I’m sorry,” I blurted, already bracing for anger.

Strong hands caught my arms before I could fall.

Warm. Steady.

I looked up.

Golden eyes met mine—sharp, surprised, assessing. Wolf. Tall. Powerful. His presence alone made the air feel heavier, charged.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then his brow furrowed slightly. “Are you alright?”

His voice wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t mocking.

It was… neutral. Curious.

“I—yes. Yes,” I said quickly, stepping back. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He studied me for another second, gaze flicking to my bag, my uniform, the human identification charm at my wrist.

Something unreadable passed through his expression.

“Happens,” he said at last, releasing me.

And just like that, he stepped aside, allowing me to pass.

No insult. No sneer.

Just… acknowledgment.

I walked away with my heart racing, unsure why that brief moment lingered longer than it should have.

I didn’t know his name.

I didn’t know then how deeply our paths would intertwine.

All I knew was that Lunaris Academy had already begun to change me—and that somewhere between hope and fear, my story had truly begun.

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