The Prophecy of the Golden Wolf

Calla's Perspective

My eyes snapped open to the sound of my own racing heartbeat—a rhythm that felt foreign, too fast, too urgent for someone who'd supposedly been sleeping peacefully. The pale morning light filtered through my curtains like water through gauze, casting shifting shadows that seemed to move with purpose across my bedroom walls.

I sat up slowly, my hand instinctively moving to my chest where my heart hammered against my ribs. The remnants of a dream clung to my consciousness—not the usual scattered fragments that dissolved with wakefulness, but something vivid and demanding. Ancient forests bathed in silver moonlight. The taste of pine and earth on my tongue. And a howl, primal and haunting, that still reverberated through my bones as if it had come from my own throat.

"Almost time," whispered a voice that wasn't quite my own.

I froze, my breath catching. The voice came from inside my head, but it felt separate, distinct—like sharing space with a stranger. I glanced around my familiar room: the desk cluttered with college brochures I couldn't bring myself to read, the bookshelf crammed with fantasy novels that used to feel like pure escapism, the mirror that reflected a girl I was beginning not to recognize.

"Hello?" I called softly, feeling foolish even as the word left my lips.

Silence answered, but not emptiness. Something waited just beneath the surface of my consciousness, patient and knowing.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet finding the cool hardwood floor. "Get it together," I muttered, running both hands through my sleep-tangled hair. "Eighteen-year-olds don't hear voices. That's not how this works."

But as I stood before my full-length mirror, studying my reflection with the intensity of someone searching for clues, I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting. At nearly eighteen, I'd grown into myself in ways that sometimes surprised me—5'8" with an athletic build earned through years of restless energy that demanded outlet through running and hiking. My long, chestnut hair fell in waves past my shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face that bore high cheekbones and full lips that my friends envied.

It was my eyes, though, that had always drawn attention. A vibrant emerald green that seemed to shift and deepen depending on my mood or the light. Today, they looked almost luminous, holding depths I'd never noticed before.

I tilted my head, studying the angles of my face with new scrutiny. My mother Elena's features were all soft curves and refined elegance—straight blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. My father David was stocky and solid, with warm brown eyes and the kind of face that inspired immediate trust. I had inherited none of their coloring, none of their facial structure, none of their mannerisms.

They'd always laughed off my questions with variations of the same explanation: "You're a perfect blend of distant relatives, sweetheart. Sometimes genetics skip generations." But standing here now, with that strange voice echoing in my mind and dreams of forests I'd never seen, the familiar unease felt sharper, more urgent.

How could I look so completely different from both of them? How could I feel so fundamentally separate from the only family I'd ever known?

As I went through my morning routine—brushing teeth, washing face, pulling my hair back into a messy bun—the voice remained quiet but present, like someone standing just behind my shoulder. By the time I'd dressed in jeans and my favorite oversized sweater, I'd made my decision.

"I need to get out of this house," I announced to my empty room, grabbing my keys and wallet. Maybe fresh air and the familiar chaos of Saturday morning at the mall would quiet whatever was happening in my head.

"You can't run from what's inside you," the voice murmured, amused rather than cruel.

"Watch me," I whispered back, and headed for the door.