Painful memories
Let me begin by introducing myself.
I am Anya Raventhorn of the Blackridge Pack. I was born under a blood moon—an omen my pack elders whispered about with caution and thinly veiled apprehension. They said children born under that cursed crimson glow carried something in their souls—an untamed wildness that would either lead to greatness… or to ruin.
As the only daughter of the Blackridge Pack’s beta, my place in the world should have been secure. My father, Darius Raventhorn, was a steadfast second to our alpha, the kind of man who could calm a council room with a single glance, or end a fight with one swing of his arm. His presence was as constant as the mountains that bordered our territory. My mother, Lana, was equally formidable—part healer, part warrior, part storm in human form. Her hands could knit flesh together as easily as they could break bone, and her sharp tongue was as much a weapon as any blade.
Our home was warm and loud, filled with the rich scents of pine resin, woodsmoke, and my mother’s herbal mixtures drying on rafters. My childhood had been one of laughter in the packhouse, of running the forest trails barefoot with my friends, of sitting around the fire while my father told stories of hunts and victories. I was protected from cruelty, shielded from the ugliness of the world by both my parents’ rank and their vigilance.
I was well-liked in the pack and at school. That is, until the night everything changed.
The night the rogues came.
I can still smell it.
That acrid, feral stench that didn’t belong—the scent of wolves who lived without honor or law, their musk tainted by rot and blood. Even now, years later, the memory of it clings to me like damp smoke.
The first howl came at dusk, low and ragged, echoing across the valley like a death knell. I remember the way the air shifted, how the fine hairs on my arms rose as if the forest itself had drawn in a sharp breath. My mother had been in the kitchen, her knife halting mid-chop. My father was already on his feet before the second howl split the air—this one closer.
“Anya, go to the cellar,” my mother said, her voice even but edged with steel. The faint tremor in her fingers betrayed her.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
The first crash came from the western treeline—branches snapping, leaves shaking loose in a frantic rain. The smell of iron hit me then, sharp and metallic, riding on the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a child screamed.
I blink, and I’m there again.
The sound of claws scraping against the wooden porch.
The vibration of heavy bodies slamming against the door.
The low, rumbling growl of something just beyond the threshold.
My father’s voice was a command and a plea all at once.
“Go. Now.”
But I lingered one heartbeat too long.
The front door splintered inward, shards of wood flying like shrapnel. Through the opening, I saw them—eyes glowing feral red, muzzles wet with saliva and blood. Wolves, but wrong. Their fur was matted, their bodies gaunt, movements twitchy and erratic.
My father shifted before my eyes, his bones breaking and reforming with practiced speed, his body swelling with muscle and fur until he stood between us and the intruders. My mother pulled me toward the back of the house, but I could still hear the deep impact of bodies colliding, the wet rip of flesh, the snarl that wasn’t my father’s.
We reached the cellar door, but then—
A crash.
A howl of pain that froze my blood.
My mother shoved me inside, slamming the door shut.
The darkness smelled of earth and mildew. The only sound was my breathing—fast, shallow, uneven. But beneath it, faint and terrible, came the muffled cries from above.
And then silence.
By the time the surviving pack members found me, the air was heavy with smoke, the house nothing more than a smoldering ruin. I was led outside, my legs weak, my head spinning.
The bodies were already being covered.
Two shrouds side by side.
Someone tried to guide me away, but I tore from their grip and fell to my knees beside them. The scent of ash, blood, and herbs still clung to my mother’s hair. My father’s broad hand—still warm—rested limply beyond the shroud until they tucked it in.
That night carved something out of me. Something deep.
And in the hollow it left behind, the blood moon’s shadow took root.
Even now, years later, I can recall every detail as if my mind refuses to let it fade. The smell of pine burning in the hearth that last evening. The faint hum of my mother’s voice as she worked. The sharp sound of a window latch snapping shut under my father’s hand.
And then—always—the sound of the rogues.
That low, hungry growl.
That ragged breathing in the dark.
I don’t remember the girl I was before the attack. She feels like someone else, a stranger I only know from old stories. The version of me that survived that night was forged in fire and loss. She learned early that the world is cruel, and that no one—no matter how strong or loved—is safe forever.
The pack recovered, in time. New walls went up. New wolves took the places of the fallen. But something in me never healed. I trained harder, pushed further, until I was strong enough to hold my own against even the most seasoned warriors. I told myself it was so I’d never feel that helpless again.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I wasn’t just preparing for danger.
I was waiting for it.
And I swore to myself—when it came, I’d be ready.