Banished by Blood, Bound by Fate

Traitor.”

The word tore through the night, sharp as a blade, louder than the pounding of my heart. Faces blurred around me, shadows shifting in the torchlight. My parents stood in the crowd, silent. Their eyes, the same pale blue as mine, did not meet me. They didn’t reach for me. They didn’t speak for me.

Beside them, my sister clung to my mate’s arm. His touch was gentle where it had never been for me, protective where it had only ever been cold. His eyes found mine across the circle, and instead of love, I saw pity. Disgust. Finality.

The Alpha’s voice rolled over me, sealing my fate. “By decree, you are banished. Leave this land and never return.”

The ground tilted beneath me. The air left my lungs. I wanted to scream, to beg, to fight—but no sound came out. My knees hit the mud. My hands reached out to no one, to nothing.

And then I was running. Running into the darkness while the voices followed me, cutting into my skin. Traitor. Useless. Unwanted.

I woke with a gasp.

My body jerked upright, sweat clinging to my skin, breath coming in shallow bursts. The old wooden ceiling of my cabin stared back at me, the morning light soft against the cracks. Not the circle. Not the mud. Not them.

Just a dream.

But not really.

I pressed my hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow. The ache never truly left. No matter how many years passed, the memory clung to me like a scar that refused to fade.

A soft nudge against my arm pulled me back. Clover, my spotted cow, stood by the fence just outside the window, her wet nose nudging the wood like she was reminding me that I was late. I let out a shaky laugh.

“All right, all right. I hear you,” I whispered, my voice still raw from the dream.

I swung my legs out of bed, tugged on my worn boots, and stepped outside. The air was cool, tinged with the sweet smell of grass and earth. My farm stretched around me, small but alive. Chickens clucked impatiently, goats bleated, Clover huffed again, and the little lamb I’d nursed through a rough winter skipped after me as if I were its mother.

They didn’t care who I had been. They didn’t care what I had lost. They only cared that I was here.

I poured feed, checked water troughs, and brushed Clover’s side, humming softly under my breath. My hands worked from habit, but my chest loosened with each familiar movement. Here, among fur and feathers, the world was quiet. Here, the whispers could not reach me.

A sharp cry broke the rhythm. One of the hens limped toward me, her wing drooping. I crouched down, careful not to startle her, and laid my hand over the wound. Warmth stirred in my palm, faint at first, then stronger as I let the power flow. The glow was soft, silvery, almost invisible under the morning sun. The hen stilled, her breathing even. When I pulled my hand back, the tear in her wing was gone.

She blinked at me, then strutted off as if nothing had happened.

I wiped my hands on my skirt and exhaled slowly. The gift that had marked me, the gift that had cursed me, was the same one that made this life bearable. Out here, it wasn’t a weapon. Out here, it was simply… mine.

I leaned against the fence as Clover shoved her nose into the feed bucket, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. “Greedy thing,” I muttered, shaking my head. “You’d think I starve you.” She flicked her ears at me, smug as ever. The little lamb tottered up to my boots and bleated, demanding to be held. With a sigh I bent to scoop him into my arms, his tiny heart thumping against my chest. “You’re the neediest of them all,” I whispered, pressing my cheek to his wool. “You’d follow me into the house if I let you, wouldn’t you?” The chickens clucked indignantly from the pen, feathers ruffling like gossiping old women. I smiled faintly. “Yes, I hear you. Don’t look at me like that. You’re fed, you’re warm, and you’ve got more room than I ever did.” My voice trailed off before I could stop it. A memory flickered—nights when my achievements were brushed aside, when even my mate’s hand felt colder than stone. I blinked hard, focusing on the animals instead. “At least you don’t pretend,” I said softly, stroking the lamb’s head. “You want food, or care, or love, and you don’t hide it. Honest. Simple. I think that’s why I like you best.” Clover huffed again, tossing her head, and I chuckled despite myself. “Fine, fine. You too, Clover. You’ve kept me better company than anyone else ever has.”

By the time the sun was climbing higher, the farm had settled. The animals grazed, the air was warm, and the nightmare had dulled to a whisper in the back of my mind. I carried a basket of eggs into the cabin, letting myself believe, just for a moment, that this peace could last forever.

But as I set the basket down, a strange prickle crawled along the back of my neck. The lamb bleated sharply outside. Clover stomped once, uneasily.

The forest at the edge of my land was too quiet.

I froze, hand still on the basket, listening.

Something was out there.