Twenty-Five: Wren

The silence is its own beast. Worse than the betas, worse than Lucian’s voice. I sit on the cot—if you can call a slab of foam and a ratty blanket a cot—hands locked in front of me, staring at the door as if it might suddenly decide to open again.

It doesn’t. Instead, I get the slow tick of water somewhere in the walls, the distant whine of wind through a cracked vent, and the soft, insistent pulse of pain where the silver cuffs bite into my wrists. There’s no window. The only light comes from a bulb in a wire cage above, but after a while it dims and then goes dark, replaced by a faint spill of moonlight through the vent near the ceiling. It splashes across the stone in stripes, turning the cell into a prison twice over.

I breathe shallow, each inhale catching on the memory of the bond breaking. If I let myself think about it, I’d go mad. So I don’t think. I count the ridges in the mortar between stones, the number of times the water drips, the seconds between the sound and the echo. Anything to avoid the reality: I am alone, the bond is gone, and I am nothing to them now.

It’s supposed to be a clean break, according to legend. The Alpha says the words, the bond snaps, and you walk away a little lighter, a little freer, maybe a little sad if you’re the sentimental type. They don’t tell you about the aftermath. They don’t warn you about the cold that creeps in, the way your chest aches with every heartbeat, the way your skin feels too loose and too tight at the same time.

I curl forward, knees hugged to my chest, fists jammed tight under my chin. The silver cuffs burn, a low, steady throb, but it’s nothing compared to the sensation in my ribs. It’s as if something has been carved out with a spoon, leaving only a cavity full of sawdust and loss. I press my hand there, palm flat, as if I can smooth it over. I can’t.

I’m aware of my wolf, somewhere deep inside, pacing the perimeter of my consciousness. It’s restless, agitated, the way it was in the hours before my first change. The silver should quiet it, but instead it just seethes in silence, scratching at the walls of my mind. Every so often, I hear it howl—not a sound, but a feeling, a ghost vibration that shakes my bones from the inside. The urge to shift is there, but the silver blocks it, keeps the wolf caged and me along with it.

I try to sleep, but the cold seeps in too fast. I lie on my side, staring at the grate, counting the breaths that leave my body in a cloud of steam. If I close my eyes, the courtyard replays in perfect detail: Lucian’s face, the crowd’s hunger, the taste of blood in my mouth. Sometimes I can hear the chain between the cuffs clatter, echoing back and forth until it fades into the howling outside.

Denial is easy at first. I tell myself this is temporary, that someone will realize they need me alive, that Lucian will come to his senses and let me out. I even laugh once—short, sharp, a bark—because the idea of Lucian doing anything from the heart is the funniest thing I’ve heard all night.

The next stage is anger. I punch the wall, palm flat, not caring about the scrape it leaves behind. I curse every name I can remember, then make up a few more for good measure. The cell absorbs the sound, gives nothing back. The wolf inside barks and snaps, but there’s nothing to bite, nothing to run from.

Bargaining comes next. I think of Dana, and for a split second I hope she’s the one coming down the hall, keys in hand, ready to bust me out with a wink and a terrible plan. I promise myself that if I survive, I’ll leave this place and never look back. I’ll go south, change my name, live somewhere warm and stupid and wolf-free. I make deals with the Moon, with whatever passes for a god around here. If you let me live, I’ll never ask for anything again. If you let me out, I’ll play by the rules.

It’s a lie, of course. I’d never play by their rules.

Eventually, I run out of stages. I’m left with the numbness, the certainty that tomorrow will be worse, and the day after that will be nothing at all.

The hours tick by. I lose track of how many. At some point, I realize I haven’t moved in what feels like forever. The cuffs have cut grooves into my wrists, the skin there bright red and raw. I touch the edge of one with my thumb, press until it hurts, then let go.

I sit up, shaking, and shuffle to the wall below the vent. The moonlight is cold and blue and impossibly far away, but I stare at it anyway. I think of the woods, the first time I shifted, the moment when I thought the world was limitless and wild and maybe even worth living in.

I survived that night.

I survived the bite. I survived the first shift. I survived Lucian’s rejection.

I will survive this.

I say it aloud, just to hear the words echo. “I survived being turned. I’ll survive being rejected.” The sound bounces off the stone, small and thin but real. I let it sit there, a promise to myself, a curse on everyone who thought this would break me.

I stare at the sliver of moonlight until my eyes burn, until the cold becomes familiar, until the pain at my wrists is just another part of the story.

Let them come for me. Let them do their worst.

I am still here.