The Mute and the Alpha King

The Soundless World

CHAPTER 2

Enid

“You’re f***ing broken, girl.”

That’s the first thing my father says when I walk into the kitchen this morning. No “good morning,” no “did you sleep?” Just that. Broken.

He says it like it’s my name. Maybe it is.

I grab a piece of stale bread from the counter and bite down hard. It tastes like sawdust, but it’s better than replying. Not that I could, anyway.

Silence has been my companion for so long it’s almost a comfort now.

I lost my voice before I ever learned what power it had. Three years old, fever burning through me like wildfire. I remember flashes—my mother crying, my father pacing, the smell of herbs gone bad. Then darkness.

When I woke up, the world was quiet. Too quiet.

No healer. No pack doctor. No miracle. We’d already been exiled by then. So my parents watched their only child fade into silence, and they’ve been angry about it ever since.

They like to pretend they’re angry because they love me, because they wanted me healed. But I know better. They’re angry because a mute daughter makes them look weak.

My father glares at me now from across the table. “You’ll never be like the rest of us.”

I shrug. “Didn’t plan to,” I think.

He hates when I do that—shrug, smirk, anything that reminds him I can still fight back without a single word.

I move my fingers slowly in front of me—simple signs I’ve made up for myself. A tap of my index finger to my chest means “I’m fine.” Two fingers raised means “Leave me alone.” I use both.

He squints, pretending he doesn’t understand, then storms out. Typical.

The moment he’s gone, I roll my eyes and exhale, long and heavy. The air in this house always feels thick, like it’s trying to choke me.

Outside, the forest waits.

Ash swoops down from his usual perch, wings catching the light. He lands on the fence post beside me, eyes bright.

“Morning,” I sign lazily, hand flicking like a wave.

He answers with a short caw that almost sounds like laughter.

We have our own language now—my signs, his sounds, the little pauses between. I whistle softly through my teeth, mimicking the tone he makes when he’s pleased. He answers immediately, and somehow that fills the silence better than any human voice could.

If the world insists on being soundless, I’ll make my own rhythm.

I head to the clearing, bare feet pressing into cool grass. The air smells of moss and rain. Every step here feels lighter.

Training starts as usual: a few strikes with a branch, a roll, a punch into nothing. I don’t train to prove anything. I train to stay sane.

When I was younger, I used to dream about the day my wolf would awaken. Everyone in our kind gets one eventually—a second self, a creature inside. But mine’s quiet. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she doesn’t exist.

Still, I dream.

Every night I see myself running with the pack, wind in my hair, paws pounding beside theirs. I can almost hear the howl building in my throat… then I wake up voiceless, heart aching like it’s been stolen all over again.

This morning feels heavier than most. The sky’s grey, clouds low. Even Ash is restless, hopping from branch to branch.

“You sense it too, don’t you?” I sign.

He ruffles his feathers in answer.

When I look toward the house, my father’s shadow moves past the window. He’s watching me. Again.

Maybe he’s making sure I don’t run away. Or maybe he’s just reminding himself why he hates me.

I toss the stick aside and start toward the stream behind the trees. Water always calms me. Its rhythm replaces the one I can’t hear anymore. I crouch, watching sunlight scatter across the ripples.

A small frog jumps near my hand, and instinct kicks in—I mimic its soft croak, mouth shaping the sound I can’t hear. It’s funny how animals don’t care whether you can speak. They just listen to the way you move.

That’s how I talk now. Through mimicry. Through eyes and gestures and breath. The forest understands me better than my own blood ever did.

I reach into the water, let the cold bite my fingers. The reflection that stares back looks older than eighteen—eyes too tired, face too still.

“Not bad for a ghost,” I think.

When I head back, smoke drifts from the chimney. The smell of burnt stew greets me at the door. My mother stands by the pot, cursing under her breath. When she sees me, her mouth tightens.

“You just f***ing stand there,” she says. “Do nothing, as usual.”

I lift my hands to sign Need help?

She swats the air like I’ve insulted her. “Don’t start with that nonsense. Use your words.”

I blink, slowly. Then point to my throat.

She sighs, turns away. “Always the victim.”

If sarcasm could kill, she’d be six feet under. I roll my eyes, grab the spoon, and stir the stew before it burns completely.

Dinner is silent, except for the scrape of spoons. My father eats like he’s in a hurry to be somewhere else.

Halfway through, he looks at me. Really looks. And something cold twists in my gut.

“Soon,” he says quietly, “you’ll be of no use to anyone.”

My spoon stops midair.

I frown, pointing at myself, mouthing, What do you mean?

He doesn’t answer. Just leans back, eyes dark, mouth curling into something that isn’t quite a smile.

My mother doesn’t look up. She keeps eating, jaw tight.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

He pushes his bowl away and stands. “Finish cleaning up.”

When he walks out, the floorboards creak beneath his steps, fading into the next room.

I sit there, staring at the door, heartbeat pounding.

Something in his tone sticks in my mind like a thorn. Soon, you’ll be of no use to anyone.

I know that look. It’s the look of someone planning something. The same look he had the day he begged the Alpha to take us back and was denied. The look he wears when he decides someone else should pay for his failures.

Ash taps on the window, startling me. His wings flick nervously.

“Yeah,” I sign toward him. “I don’t like the sound of it either.”

The night feels heavier than usual. I wash the dishes, my hands trembling just enough to make the plates clatter. My mother doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

When I finally crawl into bed, the moon is high. The air smells like rain again.

I close my eyes and dream.

I’m running through the woods, the ground cold beneath my feet. A thousand wolves race beside me—grey, black, silver. Their howls echo through the air like a song I used to know. I open my mouth to join them, and for a moment I think I hear myself.

Then nothing.

The sound dies, the world fades, and I wake up to silence. Always silence.

Ash is on the windowsill again, watching me. His feathers are puffed up, uneasy.

“Something’s coming, isn’t it?” I sign.

He doesn’t move.

Downstairs, a floorboard creaks. My father’s voice, low and rough, drifts through the cracks in the wall. I can’t hear every word, but one catches.

“Rogues.”

My blood turns to ice.

I press my hand against the wall, straining to feel vibrations—voices, footsteps, anything. Two sets of movements. His and my mother’s.

Then his voice again, sharper.

“She’s no good to us. The rogues will pay.”

I freeze.

The rest blurs—his tone rising, her whispering something back.

The message is clear.

He’s going to sell me.

I sit there in the dark, heart hammering, the silence pressing hard against my ears. My throat burns with words that will never come out.

Ash lets out a low croak, almost a warning.

I nod once. “Yeah,” I sign faintly. “Time to stop pretending.”

Outside, thunder growls in the distance.

Inside, my father’s voice says again, calm this time, final—

“Soon, she’ll be of no use to anyone.”

And just like that, I know the soundless world I’ve survived in isn’t as quiet as it seems.