Rise Of The Wolfless Witch

They whispered my name like it was something sharp.

I learned early that silence was safer than asking questions. Silence didn’t invite answers, and answers, in this pack, had teeth. So I kept my head down, my steps light, my presence small. I moved through the pack grounds like a shadow no one wanted to look at for too long.

Still, they talked.

They always talked.

“She’s eighteen soon.”

The words followed me as I crossed the yard, carrying a basket of laundry that wasn’t mine but had become my responsibility anyway. I didn’t turn. I never did. Turning meant acknowledgment, and acknowledgment gave rumours a foothold.

“Same age her mother was when it all started.”

A laugh — sharp, nervous.

“She has the look.”

I didn’t know what that meant. I never asked. Some truths were better left undefined.

The pack house loomed ahead of me, all stone and authority, the Alpha’s mark carved into the beams like a reminder of who ruled and who endured. Wolves passed me without slowing, shoulders brushing mine just enough to remind me I didn’t belong. Their scents were confident, alive, whole.

Mine was… thin.

Wolfless.

The word wasn’t always spoken, but it hung around me like smoke. I’d grown up watching children shift for the first time, their families cheering, pride thick in the air. I’d stood at the edge every time, hands clenched, heart pounding, waiting for something — anything — to answer inside me.

Nothing ever did.

By twelve, the waiting turned to dread. By fifteen, to certainty.

By seventeen, it was a sentence.

I reached the back steps of the pack house when someone blocked my path.

She didn’t need to say my name. She never did.

The beta’s daughter stood there, arms folded, lips curved in a smile that never reached her eyes. Everything about her was sharp — her posture, her gaze, the way she leaned just slightly forward like she enjoyed looming.

“Careful,” she said lightly, eyes flicking to the basket. “Wouldn’t want you dropping anything important.”

The girls behind her snickered.

I adjusted my grip and stepped to the side, but she moved with me, perfectly mirroring my motion.

“Did you hear?” she continued, voice sweet. “They’re talking about tradition again.”

My stomach tightened.

“Some old laws exist for a reason,” she said. “You know. Protection. Purity.”

I said nothing.

She tilted her head, studying my face like she was searching for something to break. “You don’t smell scared,” she added. “You should work on that.”

One of the girls laughed louder this time.

I finally looked up — just enough to meet her eyes. “May I pass?”

For a heartbeat, something dark flickered across her expression. Then she stepped aside with exaggerated grace.

“Of course,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to rush fate.”

I walked past her without another word, my pulse hammering so loudly I was sure they could hear it.

Inside the pack house, the air was warmer, heavier with the scent of cooked meat and polished wood. Voices echoed from the main hall — laughter, confidence, belonging. I kept to the edges, moving toward the storage rooms like I always did.

That was when I felt it.

The shift in the air. The pause.

I didn’t need to look to know he was there.

The Alpha’s son stood near the long table, his back half-turned, speaking with one of the elders. He was taller than most, broad-shouldered, his presence quiet but commanding in a way that didn’t need force. When he laughed — rare as it was — people listened.

He didn’t laugh now.

His gaze found me anyway. It always did.

Our eyes met for a fraction of a second before I looked away, heat creeping up my neck. I didn’t understand why his attention unsettled me more than the cruelty of others. Maybe because it was gentle. Maybe because it asked nothing.

Or maybe because part of me feared what it might mean.

I slipped into the corridor before anyone could say my name.

In the dim quiet of the storage room, I finally exhaled. My hands were shaking. I set the basket down and pressed my palms to the cool stone wall, grounding myself.

Eighteen.

The word echoed in my mind like a countdown.

My birthday wasn’t celebrated here. It was remembered.

I’d overheard enough conversations to know what happened to witches in packs like ours. To those who carried magic without permission. To women who didn’t fit neatly into the world they were born into.

Fire cleanses, they said.

Fire purifies.

Fire erases mistakes.

I swallowed hard and pushed away from the wall.

I wasn’t my mother.

That thought both comforted and haunted me.

I barely remembered her — the sound of her voice, the warmth of her hands, the way she used to hum when she thought no one was listening. What I remembered most was the silence after. The way the pack changed. The way people stopped meeting my eyes.

The way they started watching instead.

As I gathered the empty basket, a strange sensation brushed along my spine. Not fear. Not quite.

Awareness.

Like being seen.

I turned, heart racing, but the room was empty.

Still, the feeling lingered — steady, protective, almost… familiar.

I shook my head, scolding myself. Imagination was dangerous. Hope even more so.

Outside, the wind carried another whisper across the yard.

“Eighteen soon.”

I tightened my grip on the basket and walked back into the noise, unaware that this was the last day my life would ever resemble the one I knew.

And somewhere beyond the pack’s watchful eyes, something ancient stirred.

Waiting.

They never spoke about my mother in front of me.

They didn’t have to.

Her absence was stitched into everything — the way conversations stopped when I entered a room, the way elders watched me with narrowed eyes, the way children were pulled closer when I passed. I learned her story in fragments, in overheard words and half-finished sentences that curled into something ugly once my name was attached to them.

Witch.

The word was never said kindly.

I carried the empty basket back across the yard as dusk settled over the pack grounds. The air cooled, thick with pine and damp earth. Wolves moved more restlessly at this hour, their senses sharpening as night crept closer. It was when they felt most alive.

I felt like a ghost.

The old women sat near the fire pit, their voices low and crackling like the embers between them. I slowed despite myself as I passed, my feet betraying me. I sho