Where the broken howl

Elara Pain wakes me before the light does. It’s not the sharp kind anymore. It’s the deep, marrow-soaked ache. The kind that settles into bone and reminds you that you survived when maybe you shouldn’t have. I keep my eyes closed. If I don’t move, maybe I won’t feel it all at once. My ribs throb first. Then my shoulder. My lip is split. My cheek tight with dried blood. When I swallow, my throat burns. Wolfsbane. Again. The taste of it lingers in the back of my mouth, bitter and metallic. They never use just enough. They use too much. They have to. Because I heal too fast. Because I’m not just wolf. I shift slightly and agony ripples through me — poison tangling with bruised muscle. For an average wolf, a beating like last night’s would take weeks to recover from. For me? Days. Hours, if they weren’t careful. That’s why they inject me. Regularly. Enough to make me weaker than a human. Enough to keep the Lycan blood sedated. The word still feels forbidden inside my own head. Lycan. An ancient defect in my father’s bloodline. A stain from generations ago that hasn’t surfaced since. Not in his brothers. Not in his warriors. Just me. His only child. His only mistake. My wolf stirs faintly beneath the poison — stronger than most, even drugged. She doesn’t whimper. She waits. That’s what scares them. That’s why they bound the other half of me too. My magic. I remember the night they discovered it. I was seven. Frightened. Angry. A candle in the hall had flickered when I screamed. The pack witch went pale. My father went silent. Because witches do not belong in wolf packs. Especially not daughters of Alphas. My mother had been one. A traveling healer, they told me when I was small. Gentle. Quiet. Beautiful. They never told me the rest until I overheard it years later. She died shortly after I was born. That’s the lie they prefer. The truth? He killed her. My Alpha father killed his own mate when he discovered she carried his child. A witch’s child. Me. But the mating bond had already been sealed. And when I was born breathing — wolf heartbeat strong — he couldn’t bring himself to finish what he started. So instead, he made sure I would never become what I was meant to be. The binding ritual came when my magic first showed itself. The circle carved into stone. The chanting. His hand on my shoulder — not comforting. Controlling. I remember screaming when the seal sank into my chest. When something inside me was locked behind walls I couldn’t see but could always feel. After that, the beatings began. Not because I was weak. Because I wasn’t. Because if the Lycan blood matured and the witch magic awakened together… I wouldn’t just be rare. I would be powerful. Too powerful. So they suppress me. Poison the wolf. Chain the witch. And call it discipline. I force my eyes open and stare at the stone ceiling of the lower den. This is where they leave me when they’re done. Not locked away. They don’t need to be. The wolfsbane ensures I can’t run. The binding ensures I can’t fight. And the pack ensures I know I am unwanted. I press my palm to the floor and try to sit up. My muscles tremble violently. Without the injections, I would already be healing. The bruises would fade. The swelling would recede. Without the binding, I could burn this entire den to ash. The thought flickers — wild and dangerous. I swallow it down. Because it doesn’t matter. Power you can’t access might as well not exist. Above me, I hear movement. Laughter. Life. My father’s voice carries faintly through the stone. Strong. Respected. Feared. No one would ever believe what he does to his own daughter. My chest tightens — not from the bruises, but from something older. I was born from a mating bond. Yet I was never claimed. Never protected. Never loved. I try to stand. My legs give out instantly and I hit the floor again, breath shuddering from my lungs. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have survived my mother. Maybe I am a stain. My wolf stirs again — faint but steady. Not weak. Waiting. The wolfsbane burns in my veins, and my vision blurs. “I’m tired,” I whisper into the stone. Tired of being his shame. Tired of being something that has to be chained. Tired of surviving only because they won’t let me die either. Because dead daughters raise questions. Broken ones don’t. Silence answers me. But deep inside — beneath the poison, beneath the binding, beneath the years of cruelty — something ancient coils. And it does not feel like a mistake.