Chapter 13 — Among Strangers
926 Words
The scent of herbs clung to Elara’s skin by the end of her first morning in Nightfang. Selene had put her straight to work: grinding roots, mixing salves, fetching clean bandages. Nothing was complicated, but every task carried the weight of a test.
“You’ll learn quickly,” Selene said with a brisk nod, her sharp eyes softening for a moment. “Just don’t shrink from the others. They can smell fear as easily as blood.”
Elara tried not to shrink, but it was easier said than done.
Everywhere she turned, Nightfang wolves were watching her. The warriors who came to the healing ward with cuts from training didn’t thank her when she handed them bandages. Some muttered under their breath, others simply stared, their eyes hard as stone.
Silvermane. The word floated in their whispers like poison.
She bit her tongue and worked harder.
When Selene wasn’t looking, she caught snatches of the wolves’ talk.
“…can’t believe Rylan lets her stay.”
“…probably sent to spy, just like the last one.”
“…look at her hands—soft. She’s never fought a day in her life.”
They weren’t entirely wrong. She had never been trained like a warrior. But soft? No. Elara had survived rejection, humiliation, abandonment. That kind of endurance carved its own strength.
By midday, her back ached and her fingers were stained green from herbs. She carried a basket of linen out to the washing line when a pair of young wolves blocked her path.
One, a tall girl with cropped dark hair, folded her arms. “You don’t belong here.”
Elara froze, clutching the basket tighter.
The other—a boy with a scar across his chin—snorted. “She doesn’t even look like a Nightfang. All pale and timid. Bet she’ll run back to Silvermane the first chance she gets.”
Heat rushed to Elara’s cheeks. Her instinct was to bow her head, to retreat the way she always had in Silvermane. But something inside her rebelled.
“I didn’t come here by choice,” she said quietly, forcing her voice steady. “But I’m not going back.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see.”
They stepped aside, and Elara hurried past, her pulse racing.
By the time she returned to the ward, Selene was waiting with a raised brow. “Trouble?”
Elara shook her head, setting the basket down. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Selene studied her for a moment before nodding once. “Good. Handle it. Or they’ll eat you alive.”
That night, Elara carried a tray of supplies through the village. The moon hung low and full, silver light spilling over the rooftops. For the first time since her arrival, she allowed herself to look around properly.
Nightfang was rougher than Silvermane—its homes built of timber and stone, its people scarred and wary. But there was a raw vitality here too. Wolves laughed together around fires, children tumbled in the dirt, warriors sparred with feral grins. It was survival, but it was alive.
She caught sight of movement near the training yard. A tall figure stood in the shadows, arms folded, silver eyes glinting.
Rylan.
He wasn’t watching the sparring match before him. His gaze was fixed on her.
Elara’s steps faltered. She quickly lowered her eyes, pretending to fuss with the tray, but the weight of his attention pressed against her skin like heat.
Why did he look at her like that? As though he was trying to see past her bones, straight into the secrets she carried?
She hurried back to the ward, her heart racing for reasons she didn’t dare name.
Days turned into a rhythm. Elara rose early, worked under Selene’s sharp supervision, endured the whispers and suspicious stares. Some wolves softened, grudgingly accepting her quiet diligence. Others didn’t.
But each night, as she lay on her pallet in the ward, she reminded herself of one truth: she was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting for a place that might one day feel like home.
The thought of Silvermane, of Kael, still twisted her chest, but less than before. Each hour she survived among Nightfang, she proved—to them, and to herself—that she was more than the girl who had been rejected.
One evening, Selene pressed a bundle of dried herbs into her hands. “Take these to the Alpha,” she said.
Elara stiffened. “The Alpha?”
Selene gave her a sharp look. “Do you plan to cower forever? Go.”
Elara swallowed hard, clutching the herbs. Her feet carried her toward the great hall before her courage could falter.
Inside, the fire cast long shadows across the walls. Rylan sat at the table, a map spread before him, his expression carved from stone. He looked up when she entered.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Elara set the bundle down on the table, her fingers brushing the rough wood. “From Selene,” she murmured.
Rylan’s gaze lingered on her, unreadable. “And from you?”
Her chest tightened. She forced herself to meet his eyes, though her voice trembled. “From me… proof that I’m trying.”
Something flickered in his silver eyes, softer than she expected. Then he nodded once. “Keep trying.”
Elara left the hall with her pulse racing, the warmth of his words chasing her into the night.
She was among strangers, yes. But for the first time, she began to believe she might not always be.
- Writer
