Beneath the Alpha's Nose

The Secret Clearing

I don’t slow down as I run through town. My heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in my throat, and every footstep is louder than the last. They want to pick my whole future for me, right down to whose bed I’ll be thrown into. Not happening. Some part of me wants to look over my shoulder, but I keep going, into the open night just for the relief of cool air against my face. I don’t know if anyone’s watching. I don’t care.

Father didn’t even have the guts to look at me when he chained my life to Banes. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, I’m done begging for scraps of freedom from people who call it protection.

The windows are dark, the streets quiet except for the soft crunch of my boots on gravel as I slink between shadowed cabins and half-abandoned sheds. At the edge of everything, I stop. For maybe a breath and a half, I think about turning back. Beyond the lights, it’s just the forest.

Mother used to say the forest listened to those who walked in anger. If that’s true, it’s hearing plenty tonight. They told us ghosts lived out here—but ghosts don’t scare me. Living wolves do. Besides I know the woods, I grew up on those warnings. I step forward. Tree line swallows me, and I don’t look back.

Running helps. The ground gets softer, the air gets colder, and all the poison from that hall—the panic, the anger, the shame—it starts to burn off, replaced by the rhythm of my pulse and the deliberate control of every breath. Damp leaves give under my boots, slick and messy, and the sound is sharp against the stillness. Sometimes something scurries away. Nothing’s going to bother me out here, not unless it’s desperate.

No one from the pack comes this far, not unless they’re looking for trouble. Supposedly, the place is haunted. Ghosts, old gods, whatever. Most people won’t risk it. I keep going, cutting through brambles and under low branches, until I hit the narrow ravine. A fallen log bridges it. I cross with barely a thought.

On the other side is the clearing—a space I know better than anywhere else. Moonlight trickles through the net of leaves above. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Worn dummies stand in a haphazard line, patched and re-stuffed so many times they’re practically more repair than original. Old targets hang where I left them, scored deep by practice blades and splintered from impact. The rack by the big stone carries what weapons I’ve managed to make or steal: practice staves, wooden knives, even a bow I mostly ignore.

He’s already here, waiting for me. My uncle. I can see him before he moves, can sense the shift in the air, the weight of his presence. He comes forward, not looking surprised to see me early, in wolf form and wild-eyed, or probably close to feral if I’m being honest about it.

Maybe he expected it.

“They went through with it, then,” he says. Quiet, even, no judgment. He reads it off my face, because he always does.

I nod, exhaling out my snout. I can’t say it, not yet. Not even if I were in human form. Two moons and they’re going to drag me to the claiming ceremony like livestock. Two moons and I'll belong to Isaac Banes—a name heavy enough that even people outside our territory know what it means.

I don’t let myself pace or howl or do any of the wild things the wolf in me wants. Instead, I drop to my haunches and start the slow, deliberate breathing that my uncle taught me. Four seconds in, eight out, even though every instinct is screaming for me to keep running or maybe tear down the woods with my teeth. My uncle doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits in the shadow of the stone, arms folded, letting the silence fill the air between us, and I know he’s waiting to see if I’ll manage the shift on my own tonight.

The thing about changing back is that it’s not supposed to be difficult. People tell you it’s like a ripple crossing still water, a snap of the fingers, a gentle sinking into your own skin.

The stories lie. It's hell. Especially on a night with a full moon.

But for me, it’s always a struggle, no matter the moon phase. I feel every joint pull tight, muscles wringing themselves out like wet towels. My bones grind and rearrange, and I swear the only thing keeping me from screaming is that I know how my uncle hates drama. There’s a sound like twigs splintering, followed by the cold slap of fresh air on suddenly exposed skin. The fur retracts, leaving me breathless, sweat-slicked, and trembling, hunched over the trampled weeds at the edge of the clearing.

Shifting out of the wolf is never as good as going in. Becoming the wolf is a rush—a surge of strength, clarity, hunger. Coming back leaves me smaller, softer, and always a little ashamed. Every time I change back, I lose her—the wolf that isn’t afraid of anyone, not even Father. She slips away, and I’m left with bare skin and bones and the ache of being too human again.

I cough up the taste of blood and leaves from my mouth, gag at the coppery aftertaste that lingers even when I’m fully human again. My voice, newly returned, is thin and hoarse. I don’t use it yet.

My uncle stands, brisk in his movements. He’s done this many times: he grabs the rough linen robe he keeps stashed behind the weapons rack, shakes it out, and tosses it over my shoulders before looking away. I clutch it around myself, skin prickling with cold and embarrassment. Nudity is a fact of life in our world, but it still feels wrong to be this raw in front of him, especially tonight, especially after everything that’s just happened.

Neither of us says anything for a minute. I’m hunched over, pulling the robe tighter, fighting not to shiver. My uncle is already moving, lighting the lantern by the stone and setting up the makeshift bench. He doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s watching all the same, waiting for me to say something—or maybe to lose control again, so he can be ready.

A couple of years ago, I probably would have. But I'm older now. More in control.

When I finally straighten, my entire body aches. My hands shake, but I tuck them under my arms to hide it. The worst part isn’t the pain. It’s the feeling that I just lost something essential. Like the wolf is sulking in the back of my mind, angry at being shoved down, and the girl left behind is even less prepared to deal with what comes next.

He speaks quietly, but the words are sharp as a drawn blade. “You’re getting faster. Two minutes, start to finish.”

I glance at him, trying to gauge if that’s supposed to be a compliment. He doesn’t smile or soften, just nods at the progress and moves on. That’s his way of showing pride. Efficiency, not warmth.

For a second, I want to thank him, but the words die before I can let them out.

Instead, I focus on the familiar things. The battered targets, the training staves, the old tin water jug that always tastes faintly of rust. It grounds me a little. My uncle pulls the sleeves of his own shirt tighter.

“Two months,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

My uncle nods, his eyes bright in the darkness. “Two months.”

He stands and moves to the rack, handing me a practice staff. The wood is worn smooth, familiar and solid in my hands. I take it, fingers closing around the grip.

I can feel my mouth twisting. “They say I should be honored. That this helps the pack.”

His eyes go cold. “No one cares if you’re honored. They care that you obey.”

He stands in the moonlight and waits for me to get into position.

Nobody’s supposed to train girls or women to fight. It’s been that way for as long as anyone can remember. If they knew what I was doing, if they knew I was learning to fight—they’d banish me. What they'd do to Uncle Mat would probably be worse.

But right now, I just want to smash something.

I step forward, set my stance, and wait.

He’s already moving. His staff cracks into mine with enough force that it numbs my arms all the way to my shoulders. Doesn’t wait, either, just keeps coming. I have to stay light, shift left, shift right. I try to sweep low. He jumps it and comes down hard, close enough to brush my hair with the force of it. I counter, but he’s faster, always has been.

It should make me want to quit. But I don’t.

I think about the hall, about Isaac Banes, about my father and the way he looked at me like I was already gone. I let it fuel me. Every strike gets sharper. It’s not pretty, not textbook, but it works. The staves bang together, hands slipping, muscles screaming.

With every strike, I try to hit the thought that I’m powerless. That I’m already promised to a man whose name feels like a curse. If I can land one clean blow, maybe I can remind the world—and myself—that I still exist on my own terms.

My uncle doesn’t go easy on me, though. Doesn’t let up, not for a second.

When a strike glances off my ribs, I grit out a sound, more angry than hurt. Doesn’t matter. I drive forward, locking his staff for a second and shoving back. I want him to feel it. I want the whole world to feel it.

He gives nothing. No smile, no approval. Just the hard edge of someone who knows this might be the only thing I ever really own.

For a while, the clearing is the only world that exists. Just movement and pain and silence, and the knowledge that every part of me wants this more than anything else.

He finally knocks my staff aside and closes the space, his staff pressed against my chest. I don’t look away. Sweat stings my eyes, but I’m still standing.

"I won't go to him," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I won't be handed over like property."

My uncle nods slowly, his expression unreadable in the dappled moonlight. "Isaac Banes is not known for his patience or forgiveness. If you defy this arrangement..."

He doesn't need to finish. We both know what happens to anyone who challenges Isaac's authority.

The forest around us seems to press closer, the protective circle of trees transforming into a reminder of how trapped I truly am. Even here, in my secret sanctuary. The night air, which had felt so freeing as I ran, now carried the chill of impending winter—and with it, the cold reality of my situation.

As if sensing my doubt, Uncle Mat tosses me my staff, moving to the center of the clearing and assuming a fighting stance. "Show me what you'll do instead."