Fifteen: Wren

The next minute is a test: of patience, of biology, of whose nerves fray first. The wolves hold their posts, hemming me in with a living, bristling fence—fifteen feet, then twelve, then eight. They don’t speak, not with words, but the message is loud as any bar fight invitation. You will not pass.

My chest heaves with the effort of staying upright. Legs shake, the left one already spongy and weak. My heartbeat is so loud I wonder if they can hear it, each pulse a drumbeat that says, Run. Run. Run.

So I do. Or I try.

I fake left, then cut right, low to the ground. The wolf on that side—midnight-black and mean as winter—drops her front end, tail arched like a scythe. I try to bluff her, snapping at her muzzle, but she sidesteps, barely moving. The distance between us shrinks to nothing, and her teeth flash inches from my eyes, a warning shot that says: next time, I don’t miss.

I reverse direction, tail tucked, and charge the circle opposite. This wolf is smaller, quicker—he dances back just enough to make me think I’ll break through, then rams his shoulder into my ribs, shunting me back to the center like a puck slapped by a pro. I hit the ground hard, ice-cold through the fur, lungs fighting for air.

Every time I move, they close in, then ease off, as if there’s a script none of them are allowed to deviate from. My human brain recognizes it: containment, not chaos. A controlled burn. The wolf wants to brawl, but the pack wants something else.

I bare my teeth, curling into the biggest, ugliest snarl I can muster. It doesn’t scare them, not even a little. They’ve seen this a hundred times before. Maybe more.

So I go feral. I lunge at the nearest one, jaws snapping, claws raking the air. He dodges, barely. My claws catch the side of his neck, draw blood, a line of red against gray. I brace for retaliation, but none comes. He just blinks, shakes once, and re-joins the circle, blood already beading and freezing along his fur.

The cold is catching up. I can feel it in the joints, the way the tailbone aches and the pads start to burn. The wolf part of me doesn’t care; it’s used to pain. But the human remembers frostbite, remembers the hospital, remembers that bodies break. The memory is enough to chill me deeper than the snow.

Above us, the moon is so fat it looks ready to pop. I can see every crater, every shadow. The air is thick with pine sap, crushed needles, the sweet rot of something dead and half-buried under the snow. It’s almost pretty, if you don’t count the copper tang of my own blood seeping out with every heartbeat.

The circle tightens again. Six feet. I can smell the breath of each wolf, the complex math of their body heat shifting as they move. The discipline is perfect—no wasted motion, no weak spots. If I could speak, I’d cuss them out for being such assholes about it.

Then, the snap.

It’s a tiny thing—a single twig, dry and brittle, giving up its ghost at the edge of the clearing.

Instantly, the wolves part. Not random, not a scramble, but a synchronized two-step that opens a perfect lane from the darkness to where I’m crouched, panting, in the blood-melted snow.

My first thought: trap.

My second: maybe.

The air shifts. The smell changes. Something new, something heavier, steps into the corridor the pack has made. I can’t see him yet, but I know it’s a him, just like I know he’s the reason none of these wolves have tried to finish me themselves.

The discipline has a source.

I stay low, every muscle wired, waiting for the next move.

The wolves on either side hold their positions, heads down, tails still, as if they know not to interrupt what’s coming. I can feel their gaze on me—not challenge, not even curiosity, just the patient focus of professionals waiting for the boss to arrive.

Another footstep, closer. The shadow grows. For a heartbeat, I wonder if I can still speak, if the tongue and throat remember how, if the mouth will let me say anything that matters. But it’s a moot point, because I know what’s coming, and the language will not be mine.

The opening in the pack stays open, a corridor of purpose. The only thing left is to see what walks through it.