The scent of damp earth and scorched wood hung in the air like a memory no one could forget. Ash clung to every leaf and stone, a silent reminder of another night of wildfires lit by carelessness or vengeance.
In the farthest edge of the rogue encampment, where the forest crept closer and silence was less a blessing and more a shield, a girl sat cross-legged on the dirt floor of a rundown cabin. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal and dry paint. Streaks of blue and crimson stained her forearms like bruises. A small, half-finished canvas rested in her lap, where, a forest, half-burned, half-alive.
This was her sanctuary. A space no one wanted to enter, and thankfully, never tried.
Charollet.
Nineteen years old. The girl who never shifted.
The girl they all whispered about behind her back if they even remembered she was there at all.
She had grown up among the rogues, left swaddled in a threadbare blanket at the edge of their border the night the moon turned red. They never knew who her parents were, or which pack had cast her away. And they never really tried to find out.
The rogues had no use for orphans. No patience for the weak. Yet she had survived barely thanks to Viktor.
Old, scarred, and half-blind in one eye, Viktor had been the first to pick her up that night. He'd wrapped her in his coat and growled down the others when they suggested leaving her for the crows. Over time, he became the closest thing she had to family.
“They left you for dead, little one,” he’d once said. “Don’t let them kill what’s left.”
But surviving wasn't the same as living.
Growing up rogue meant growing up rough. Most of them were exiles and cast out from their packs for crimes, betrayal, or simply being inconvenient. They were the wild dogs of the werewolf world. They fought for scraps, turned on each other in a heartbeat, and viewed compassion as a weakness.
To them, Charollet was always… other.
She hadn’t shifted at sixteen. Or seventeen. Or even eighteen.
And now, at nineteen, when others led attacks or secured new territory, she still hadn’t shifted.
To the rogues, that made her dangerous. Or useless. Or both.
“She’s a human,” some muttered when they thought she couldn’t hear. “Or cursed.”
“She’s a mouth to feed and no teeth to fight.”
“She’s soft. A ghost.”
They weren’t wrong about the last part. Charollet had learned early on to fade into the background. To keep her head down, her voice low, her presence barely there.
When the rogues gathered for battle plans or feast nights, she stayed in her small wooden shack no more than four walls and a leak-ridden roof and painted.
Art was the only place she didn’t feel broken. In brushstrokes, she found something like peace. In color, she found herself.
She painted the forests she wished she could run through. Moons she imagined whispering secrets. Wolves she had never become.
Most of her paintings were hidden under a loose floorboard, her secret world, untouched by the cruelty around her.
Only two people ever stepped into that world willingly.
One was Viktor.
The other was Mia.
Mia was a mystery, even among rogues. Tall and striking, with coppery brown hair always tied back and sharp eyes that missed nothing, she had once been a beta female in a powerful northern pack. Her mate rejected her for a higher-ranking she-wolf, casting Mia out like trash. But unlike most broken wolves, Mia didn’t shatter, she sharpened.
She had joined the rogues five years ago and quickly made herself useful. She fought when she had to, healed when others couldn't, and was one of the few who could negotiate borders and land without spilling blood.
Mia was respected. Feared. But to Charollet, she was… kind.
Not soft. Never soft. But real. Honest. Protective in a way that didn’t suffocate.
“You don’t owe them your pain,” Mia had once said, kneeling beside her after a rough night. “Let it out on the canvas, not your skin.”
Since then, Mia had brought her spare paint, patched her roof, and sometimes left food outside her door without a word. She never pitied Charollet. She just saw her.
And in a place like this, that was everything.
Still, kindness didn’t shield Charollet from the rest.
Most days, she helped quietly where she could like mending clothes, gathering herbs, cleaning wounds when Mia was out on patrol. But she was never truly accepted.
The rogues didn’t laugh with her. They didn’t share fire-whiskey with her after raids. They didn’t teach her the strategies of war or the sacred oaths of wolves.
They barely acknowledged her unless they needed a scapegoat or a target for boredom.
Once, when a raid had gone wrong and a rogue returned with a mangled leg, he’d snarled at her for using the wrong salve. Another time, a stolen food ration had mysteriously disappeared, and she’d been blamed without evidence. The punishment? No food for two days.
She took it all in silence. She always had.
Because what else was there?
She had no wolf to defend her. No pack bond to fall back on. No name whispered in reverence like the others. She didn’t even know her birth name. Charollet was the name Viktor had given her and he said it was the name embroidered on the torn edge of her blanket.
A name with no roots. No history. Just a girl and a whisper of what could’ve been.
And yet… she endured.
Every morning, she woke before the others, brushed her fingers over her secret paintings, and whispered to herself, One more day. That’s all we need.
Somewhere deep inside, she clung to the foolish hope that her wolf was there silent, maybe, but waiting. Waiting for the right moment. The right reason.
Maybe she just hadn’t found it yet.
Or maybe, she thought grimly, it had already died inside her before she ever learned to listen.
A loud crash outside broke her train of thought.
Voices rose. Urgent. Tense.
She tucked her canvas away and stood, brushing the dust from her tunic. The cold morning air bit at her skin as she stepped outside.
Two rogues were dragging a body toward the center of the camp.
Mia walked behind them, blood on her hands, a hard look on her face. She caught sight of Charollet and gave the barest nod.
Charollet didn’t ask questions. She never did. She just stepped forward and fetched clean water from the barrel near her door, then reached for the healing salve she’d made with crushed sage and feverleaf.
She wasn’t one of them.
But she knew how to put broken things back together.
Charollet felt the dawn break over the shrine with a weight in her chest she could not name. When morning light filtered across the glassy surface of the ancient pool she had touched days before, the water had remained still, almost lifeless. But beneath the surface she sensed something stirring. Not magic. Not blood. Something older. Something that had waited for her arrival.She awoke in silence. The tents around the shrine slept under pale skies. Redmaw warriors had formed a ring of watch but none entered the shrine circle itself. Volgrin had insisted on a safe boundary. Not distance born of fear but ritual respect. Today was important. Everything would shift.The morning air was gray and cold, sharper than Charollet expected. She pushed the blanket from her shoulders and stepped toward the circle. The ground underfoot felt alive. A quiet thrum echoed through
The woods had turned strange. Trees whispered in a voice Charollet could not understand. Their trunks twisted toward her as if remembering something ancient. The branches sagged under the weight of snow that did not fall, casting the trail in dull silver. They had walked for days now, deeper into the wilderness that bordered the northeastern edge of the realm. Volgrin walked ahead, surrounded by his guards, his pace unwavering. Behind him, Redmaw warriors flanked Charollet with cruel vigilance. She was not bound, not anymore, but she may as well have been. The threat of their claws kept her silent.Each step felt heavier. The path they followed was barely visible beneath layers of pine needles and frost. It did not resemble a road so much as a memory, resurrected from the earth for their passage. She had begun to notice how the birds no longer sang. Even the wolves, creatures of sound and scent, made no noise here. Whatever place they neared, it had a soul. One that watched.Volgrin’s
The air inside the Redmaw stronghold felt thick with ash and old secrets. Charollet had lost count of the days. Sunlight never touched the stone floor of the room they kept her in. Instead, a dull crimson glow filtered through the blood-tinted glass above, painting her skin with the color of dried wounds. The silence was deceptive, disturbed only by the occasional howl that drifted through the cracks in the mountain walls.She sat curled on a cot that was too thin to bring rest. Her wrists were bruised, not from chains, but from the cold grip of the warriors who came and went as if she were a relic. They touched her only when necessary, spoke little, and avoided her eyes. The few words they did speak were orders or prayers. They treated her not as a prisoner, but as something far more dangerous.As if she might unmake them with a single breath.The door groaned open again. Volgrin entered, his heavy boots leaving streaks of mud and frost across the stone floor. His presence filled the
The Redmaw stronghold was unlike Darkfang’s great stone halls. It rose from the mountain’s belly like a wound, a fortress carved into black rock and braced with iron spines. No moonlight reached its deepest corridors. No warmth lingered in its breathless chambers. It was a prison made not only of stone, but of silence.Charollet had not seen the sky in days.The chamber she was held in was low and narrow, a crescent of carved obsidian and dirt packed hard enough to scrape skin. There were no windows, only a thin vent of smoke through which the torchlight above flickered and sent ribbons of soot to collect on the uneven floor. Her arms ached where iron shackles pressed bone against stone. She had long since stopped struggling.But she had not stopped thinking.She had not cried, either.Volgrin had ensured that. Tears, he told her, were a luxury for the unbroken.Each day, he came down to see her. Never at the same hour. Sometimes with food. Other times, with threats.Always with inten
Before Kade was a warrior, before he was a Beta, and long before he ever dreamed of claiming the Darkfang throne, he was a child hiding behind stone pillars, watching wolves tear each other apart.He had not been born into power. His mother was a healer, soft-spoken and too kind for the cold stone halls that ruled the Darkfang Pack. His father had been a warrior, brutal and quick-tempered, killed in a border skirmish when Kade was five years old. After his death, Kade and his mother had been moved to the servants' quarters. Their rooms were narrow, their windows too small, and their words had to be chosen carefully. There were ears everywhere in Darkfang. Even the stone listened.In those early years, Kade learned not to speak unless spoken to. He learned how to walk without making sound, how to count the seconds between patrols, and how to disappear into shadows. He had to. Because the pack he belonged to was not merciful.Darkfang’s glory had always been forged in blood. That was wh