My earliest memories were of loneliness and survival. Abandoned as a pup, I grew up wandering the edges of packs, always longing for a sense of belonging that remained just out of reach. Every attempt to join a pack ended the same way—with rejection. No parents, no known bloodline, no place to call home. To them, I was nothing more than an outsider. Unworthy. The sting of rejection hardened me, shaping me into a survivor. I learned to rely on no one but myself. That changed when I was fifteen. I stumbled upon Maron, a reclusive she-wolf who had long turned her back on pack life. Grief had driven her into isolation after she lost her mate in a brutal war, but something about the lost, starving girl standing before her softened her heart. She took me in—offered me food, shelter, and, most importantly, kindness. Being a teenager was hard enough, but being one who hadn’t shifted yet? Even harder. Still, I managed to pull it off. One evening, as I crept toward Maron, trying to sneak
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