Chapter 3: A Wolf Without a Voice
1243 Words
The silence inside her was louder than the howls that rang through the training fields each morning. As the other young wolves shifted effortlessly, stretching fur-covered limbs and growling with power, Celeste stood in the shadows, watching.
She always watched.
She never joined.
Because there was nothing inside her to answer the call of the moon.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
The first time she was supposed to shift had come and gone nearly two years ago—on her sixteenth birthday. The others had gathered in the clearing under the full moon, eyes wide with anticipation, howls echoing through the pack lands as bones cracked and fur sprouted.
And her?
Nothing.
No shift. No pain. No voice from within.
Just silence. Stillness.
The kind that felt like a funeral.
She had stood there, barefoot in the dirt, heart hammering as the others transformed. She remembered the way their eyes flashed gold, howls of joy piercing the sky. Even the weakest of them had found their wolves.
Everyone… except her.
And from that night on, she had been labeled:
Wolfless. Broken. Unworthy.
They stopped calling her Celeste. Now, she was “the girl without a wolf.”
Or worse, “the mistake that walks.”
No matter how hard she tried, her wolf never stirred.
She whispered to it at night, begged in the quiet dark.
Please. Say something. Wake up. I need you. I can’t do this alone.
But there was never a reply.
Just the soft rustle of leaves outside the pantry window. Just her own heartbeat, too fragile and too loud.
Training days were the worst. The warriors and betas trained the next generation out on the open fields. Shifting practice, combat sparring, scent tracking, stamina runs. Celeste wasn’t allowed to train—wolfless, they said, had no right to step on those sacred grounds.
Still, Greta made her go.
To clean up after them.
Celeste stood at the edge of the field, broom in hand, eyes on the line of trainees shifting one by one under Beta Garren’s command. She moved slowly, sweeping grass and dirt into neat piles as sweat dripped down her back. Her muscles were still sore from cleaning the kennels all night.
Every c***k of bones and howl that followed stabbed at her chest like a cold knife.
She should have been one of them.
She wanted to be one of them.
Instead, she was their shadow. Their ghost.
A group of young warriors passed her, laughing. One of them—a tall boy named Bren—snorted as he glanced her way.
“She still watching us? Weird.”
“I bet she thinks she can learn by sweeping,” another added. “Maybe she’ll shift into a broom next moon.”
Laughter followed. Harsh. Cutting.
Celeste bent her head lower, hiding her face beneath her tangle of hair. She gripped the broom tighter, her knuckles white, her nails digging into her palm.
Why won’t you wake up? she begged inside her mind.
I need you. Please. I’m not strong enough without you.
Still, the answer never came.
That night, Celeste slipped away from the packhouse once the kitchen had gone quiet. Her chores were done, and Greta was likely drunk on spiced wine as usual. The moon was high and silver above the trees, glowing with a light that made her heart ache.
She padded barefoot into the woods beyond the borders. Not too far—she knew better than to cross them—but far enough to be alone. Far enough to breathe.
The wind stirred the trees gently, whispering across her skin like a caress.
She knelt by a patch of moss, placed her palms against the earth, and closed her eyes.
Are you there?
Do you hear me?
Why won’t you speak?
It wasn’t that she hadn’t felt anything. There were moments—quiet flickers—where something deep inside her stirred. Like a heartbeat just beyond her own. Like something watching from within the fog.
But it never lasted. It never came close enough to touch.
And every time she dared to believe it was awakening, it retreated even further.
Celeste dug her fingers into the soil, jaw clenched.
“I know you’re there,” she whispered to the trees. “Why are you hiding from me? Why am I the only one who’s—”
A snap of a branch cut her off.
She spun around quickly, heart leaping. But there was no danger. Just a fox slipping between the trees, tail flicking like a flame.
She exhaled shakily. For a moment, she'd hoped it was someone else.
Someone who cared enough to come looking.
But no one ever did.
She was safe out here—not from the world, but from her own kind.
The next morning, she awoke late.
A rare slip.
She raced down to the kitchen with panic clawing at her throat, only to find Greta waiting with two guards and a cold, satisfied smile.
“Out past curfew again?” the Head Omega purred. “I was beginning to think you’d finally run off like your mother.”
Celeste froze. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t—”
A hard slap sent her stumbling into the wall. One of the guards stepped forward, grabbing her by the arm.
Greta’s lips curled. “Take her to the holding pen. She’ll miss today’s meals. Maybe tomorrow’s too. Remind her what happens when trash forgets its place.”
“No!” Celeste cried, struggling. “Please—don’t lock me in again—I didn’t—”
But no one listened.
They never did.
The holding pen was a small stone room at the edge of the grounds, where rebellious pack members were punished. No light. No warmth. Just cold walls, a locked door, and silence.
Familiar silence.
She curled into the corner once the door slammed shut. Her knees pulled to her chest. Her breaths were shallow.
This wasn’t the first time she’d been here.
But it still hurt just as much.
The loneliness had weight. It sat on her chest, pressed into her ribs. And still, her wolf said nothing.
Even you’ve given up on me, she thought bitterly. Even you.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn’t wipe it away.
Hours passed. Maybe more.
Time lost meaning in the dark.
Her mind drifted. To her mother, whose name no one said anymore. To the old stories of wolves whose mates never came. To the first time she’d heard the word “rejected.”
A whisper in the dark.
It came from within.
Faint. Fragile.
Like wind through leaves.
Her head snapped up.
“...hello?” she whispered.
No reply.
But the air felt different. Thicker. Humming. Like something had brushed against her soul.
Her heart pounded.
“Please,” she whispered. “Say something. Anything.”
Silence again.
But her chest felt warmer.
She didn’t know why.
They released her at dawn, without a word.
Celeste stumbled back to the kitchen, starved and aching, her body hollow but her mind strangely alive.
She thought of the whisper again.
It hadn’t been a dream.
She was sure of it.
She stood by the window as the sun rose, its golden rays melting across the land like honey.
For the first time in years, she let herself believe.
Maybe… she wasn’t truly wolfless.
Maybe her wolf was just hiding.
Like her.
- Writer
