The Messenger

Iva woke to the sharp, merciless ring of her alarm at four in the morning, the sound drilling through the quiet darkness of her room, and for a brief, foolish second she wished she could slam the pillow over her head and pretend she wasn’t the Gamma’s daughter, pretend she wasn’t expected to be the first one training, pretend she wasn’t the constant disappointment her father treated like an unavoidable burden. “Come on, Iva, move,” she told herself as she swung her legs out of bed, blinking against the cold air that nipped at her bare arms. “It’s not like lying here will magically make him proud of you.” She dressed quickly—black leggings, a snug training shirt, and boots that had seen too many brutal mornings—and tied her long ash-brown hair into a high ponytail, strands slipping loose around her gentle face. Her skin held that faint silvery undertone common among their pack, and her warm hazel eyes still carried the softness she tried so hard to hide, because softness was not a trait respected among warriors, especially not among those expected to lead. She didn’t have her wolf yet—no eighteen-year-old did until the night of their birthday—but recently she had felt a strange pressure under her skin, a restless anticipation that made her wonder if her wolf would be calm or fierce, gentle or wild, or maybe, she thought on her worst days, maybe her wolf would be just as disappointing to her father as she was. “Don’t think about that,” she scolded herself gently as she slipped out of the house and into the cool predawn air, moving with a speed she hoped would push her thoughts away. “You’re doing your best. One day he’ll see that. Maybe.” The training grounds sprawled behind the pack’s main buildings, lit by harsh floodlights that cast long shadows across the dirt. The Silvercrest Pack was one of the most powerful in the region, respected for its size and feared for its warriors, and their Alpha’s lineage had ruled these lands for generations with iron strength and unwavering discipline. Iva spotted her father immediately—Gamma Rhys, a tall and imposing figure with arms crossed firmly behind his back, dark hair touched with silver at the temples, and a gaze that could make even seasoned fighters straighten without thinking. She approached quietly, her heart tightening with the familiar mix of hope and dread. “Morning, Father,” she said softly. He barely flicked his eyes toward her, offering the smallest nod before turning away as if acknowledging her more than that might embarrass him. “Right… same as always,” she thought, swallowing the sting. “Why did you even try?” Training was relentless, her muscles screaming as she pushed herself past exhaustion, throwing punches and blocking strikes with a determination that tasted like desperation. She kept waiting for a single word of approval from her father, even a small one, but he corrected her stance again and again with clipped, cold instructions that carried no warmth at all. By sunrise she was trembling from fatigue, though she hid it well, because weakness was simply not allowed—not by her father, not by the standards of the pack. She rushed to the showers the moment training ended, letting hot water cascade down her aching body, and she exhaled slowly, wishing the water could wash the heaviness from her chest. “Only a few more weeks,” she reminded herself as she dressed in jeans and a white sweater for school. “Finish high school, get your wolf, survive your birthday, and maybe things will finally change.” When she stepped off the pack’s school van, the courtyard was loud with chatter, and her eyes found him immediately, her childhood crush, —Nick Blackthorn, the future Alpha King, surrounded by a cluster of girls near the fountain. He looked effortlessly commanding, even in plain clothes, with his dark tousled hair, sharp jawline, and storm-blue eyes that seemed to draw attention without even trying. The girls around him laughed at everything he said, clinging to his words like they were a privilege and not simply sound in the air. Gathering her courage, Iva walked past and offered a polite smile. “Good morning, Nick.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t nod, didn’t offer the barest acknowledgment that she existed, except in the official settings when she was with her family. One of the girls shot Iva a smirk, whispering something behind her manicured hand, and the other girls giggled in that sharp way that made Iva feel smaller than she wanted to admit. “Why do you keep trying with him?” she asked herself bitterly as she walked away. “He’s never seen you. He never will.” Classes dragged painfully throughout the morning, each minute feeling stretched and heavy, but she was saved—as always—by the one bright spot in her life. Lori slid into her seat beside her, hair in a messy bun, eyes sparkling with mischief, and a grin that could make any day bearable. “Please tell me we can get through history without me falling asleep on your shoulder again,” Lori whispered dramatically. “We can try,” Iva laughed, feeling warmth spread through her chest. “No promises.” Lori nudged her and whispered jokes and gossip through most of the class, and for a little while Iva forgot the sting of Nick’s coldness, forgot her father’s silence, forgot the weight of being almost eighteen with no idea who she truly was yet or what she will do in the future. But every time her thoughts drifted, she felt that strange inner pull again, that faint stirring under her skin that whispered that everything—absolutely everything—was about to change. -- The cafeteria buzzed with noise when Iva and Lori settled at their usual table by the wide windows, the sunlight pouring in a little too brightly as if trying to force cheerfulness on a room filled with gossip, cliques, and the constant shuffling of wolves pretending they weren’t stressed about graduation. Lori unpacked her salad and medical anatomy notes at the same time, multitasking like always, while Iva poked at her food with absent interest, her gaze wandering over the crowd. Lori, the pack doctor’s daughter, had already started preparing to apply to medical schools, her dreams as sharp and focused as her mind, and she lifted her eyes from her notes with a soft sigh. “So… have you thought about where you want to apply? Or what you want to study? Because deadlines are crawling closer, and you know the Academies doesn’t wait for anyone.” Iva shook her head slowly, twisting her fork between her fingers as the familiar heaviness settled over her shoulders. “I tried talking to my mom about it,” she murmured, “and she said she supports me in whatever I choose, but we both know the decisive factor isn’t her.” The bitterness slipped through her voice despite her effort to keep it soft. “I tried speaking with my father too… but you know how my father likes to ignore or criticize me no matter how carefully I choose my words.” Lori frowned, leaning forward as her eyes narrowed in frustration. “What did he say this time?” Iva let out a small, humorless laugh. “When I brought up the idea of college, he just scoffed. Literally scoffed. He said it would be ‘a waste of money’ and then walked off without giving me even one piece of real feedback.” She shrugged weakly. “So… that’s where I am.” “That’s not just unfair,” Lori muttered, stabbing her fork into her salad with unnecessary force, “it’s completely stupid. You are smart and dedicated, you have good grades. You need to start applying already, Iva. And you don’t even know if your family will support you or not—how are you supposed to plan anything like this?” “I know,” Iva whispered, exhaling a long breath that deflated her chest, and the moment she looked up, her eyes landed—unwillingly—on Nick across the cafeteria. He stood with his usual circle of admirers, laughing about something, his posture relaxed and confident in that way he had since childhood, the posture of someone who was raised knowing he would lead entire packs someday. Something inside her tightened. Why him? Why always him? Lori followed her gaze and groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re staring at him again. Iva, come on. You tried already…” “I’m not staring,” Iva muttered defensively, though her eyes lingered anyway. “I’m just… looking.” “Same thing.” Iva wanted to look away, but her memories made her chest ache. She remembered last year—how much courage it took to walk up to him, how her hands shook even though she tried to hide it, how her voice cracked as she confessed the feelings she’d been holding since childhood. She remembered the shock on his face that shifted into amusement, vicious amusement, and the way he laughed in front of everyone. Ironboard. The word still burned under her skin, as bad as his rejection and mockery. He had said it with a smirk, like her athletic body—built from years of hard training—was something to mock, just because her chest hadn’t developed like the other girls’. While they bloomed early, she remained a late bloomer, flat in all the ways that teenage wolves judged harshest. Another reason for disappointment, she thought bitterly, wishing the memory didn’t still sting the way it did. Lori reached across the table and squeezed her hand gently. “Iva… forget about him. Seriously. Yes, he’s the future Alpha, but he’s also kind of an arse. Actually, no ‘kind of’—he’s a complete arse.” Iva snorted softly. “Maybe… but he’s an arse who will attend the military werewolf academy next year—while I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed to go anywhere.” “So apply,” Lori said firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “Apply anyway. Just in case your father—Gamma Rhys, the king of emotional constipation—finally decides to pull his head out of his backside and lets you chase your dreams.” Iva blinked, then laughed despite the ache in her chest. “Lori…” “I’m right and you know it. At least give yourself the chance, Iva. Give yourself options.” Iva hesitated, staring down at her tray before nodding slowly. “Okay… maybe you’re right. I’ll… I’ll apply, just in case.” Though deep down, a quiet voice whispered that hope was dangerous, especially for someone like her. Lori smiled triumphantly and returned to her notes, while Iva tried to focus on her food, though her eyes drifted once more toward Nick—beautiful, cruel, untouchable Nick—and she wondered if he would ever look at her with anything other than annoyance or mocking amusement. She doubted it.