THE ONES WHO ARE CHOSEN
1194 Words
The Wolf Parkers did not believe in mercy.
They believed in obedience, fear, and profit.
Aeloria learned this before she learned how to count the days.
The compound sat low in a valley ringed by iron fencing and watchtowers, where the moonlight never quite touched the ground. Rows of cages lined the earth like open wounds—iron bars rusted from rain and blood, doors reinforced with chains thick enough to bind monsters. The air always smelled the same: damp fur, old fear, and ash from the fires that never fully went out.
She was small for her age, thin in a way that came from hunger rather than growth. Her white hair—too pale, too strange—was always tied back roughly, as if the guards were afraid it might offend them. Dirt clung to her bare feet. Scratches mapped her arms and legs like memories she wasn’t allowed to forget.
They told her she was a pup.
They told her she was property.
They told her she was lucky.
Aeloria did not remember her parents. She remembered her grandfather’s hands, rough but gentle, the way his voice softened when he told her stories. She remembered laughter. Warm bread. A fire that meant safety.
Here, fire meant punishment.
Every morning began with the bell.
It rang once—low and heavy—and the cages erupted into movement. Pups scrambled to their feet, some already limping, others moving too slowly and earning the snap of a baton against metal. Names were not used here. Only numbers, barked orders, and curses.
Aeloria stayed quiet. She had learned that quickly.
Beside her cage, the little werewolf boy stirred. He was smaller than most of the others, dark-haired, with eyes too old for his face. He had been here longer. That meant he knew when to move and when not to.
“Don’t look up,” he whispered once, barely moving his lips.
She obeyed.
The guards liked eye contact. They liked fear they could see.
Training began at sunrise.
They were run until their lungs burned, forced to shift until their bones screamed, starved until obedience felt like relief. Those who collapsed were dragged aside. Those who fought back were beaten until they learned.
Aeloria learned fast.
She learned how to curl her hands into fists when they shocked her, how to bite back screams when the collar tightened around her throat. She learned how to slip into her small white pup form—not fully, not cleanly, but enough to survive the worst of it.
At night, when the moon rose high and cold, she pressed her wrist to her chest and felt the bracelet her grandfather had made her.
It shimmered faintly, as if breathing.
She didn’t understand it. She only knew it made the nightmares quieter.
Until the night the screaming started.
It cut through the compound like a blade.
Aeloria jerked awake as guards stormed down the rows, boots slamming into the dirt. Torches flared to life, shadows jumping wildly against the cages.
“Out,” one of them snarled, yanking open a cage two rows down.
The pup inside—a girl with matted brown hair and shaking hands—was dragged out by her arm. She cried, begged, called for someone who didn’t exist anymore.
“No, please, I didn’t do anything—”
The baton struck her across the mouth.
Blood hit the ground.
Aeloria’s fingers dug into the bars. Her chest felt too tight. Too small.
“What happens to her?” she whispered.
The boy beside her didn’t answer right away.
When he did, his voice was flat. “She won’t come back.”
They dragged the girl past them, her heels carving lines in the dirt. She screamed until the sound broke into sobs, then into nothing at all.
The gates at the far end of the compound opened.
A flash of fire.
The smell of burning fur.
Aeloria retched.
No one slept after that.
The next terror came with elegance.
The vampire arrived just before dusk.
Everything stopped when the black carriage rolled in, wheels silent against the ground. The guards straightened, suddenly nervous, suddenly obedient in a way Aeloria had never seen before.
The vampire stepped out slowly, as if the world belonged to him.
He was tall, pale, dressed in dark fabric that seemed to swallow the light. His eyes were red—not bright, but deep, like wine left too long in the dark. He smiled as he looked over the cages.
Aeloria felt it immediately.
The fear was different.
This wasn’t the blunt terror of pain. This was the fear of being seen.
“Such poor conditions,” the vampire murmured. “You should really clean your stock better.”
Stock.
The guards laughed nervously.
“Pick one,” the head handler said quickly. “Strong ones. Young.”
The vampire walked slowly down the row.
His gaze passed over cage after cage, lingering here, dismissing there. Pups shrank back. Some tried to look strong. Others sobbed openly.
When his eyes landed on Aeloria, her bracelet burned.
Not hot—alive.
She froze.
The vampire tilted his head, intrigued.
“White,” he said softly. “How rare.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She forced herself not to move, not to shift, not to scream.
Then the boy beside her stepped forward.
“She’s weak,” he said quickly. “She can barely shift. I’m stronger. Take me.”
The vampire’s gaze slid to him.
Something sharp flickered there.
“How noble,” he said. “But I don’t recall asking for volunteers.”
He reached into the cage.
Aeloria moved without thinking.
Her hand shot out, grabbing the boy’s wrist, pulling him back. The bracelet flared with silver light.
The vampire hissed.
Just for a second.
Then the light vanished.
Silence fell.
The handler’s face drained of color. “Forgive us, my lord. The pup—she’s defective.”
The vampire stared at Aeloria for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
“Interesting,” he said. “I’ll take another.”
He chose a larger pup instead—a boy who had once snarled proudly during training.
They took him screaming.
When the gates closed behind the carriage, the compound exhaled.
The boy beside Aeloria sagged against the bars, shaking.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. Her wrist still glowed faintly.
That night, the bracelet changed.
Under the moonlight, it loosened, silver threads unraveling like mist. Aeloria stared in silent awe as the light gathered, shaped itself, and formed something small and warm against her skin.
A tiny spirit creature emerged—soft-furred, glowing faintly, eyes bright with intelligence. It curled into her palm, letting out a quiet sound that felt like comfort.
The boy gasped.
“A spirit…” he breathed. “That’s impossible.”
The creature lifted its head, ears twitching, and pressed itself against Aeloria’s chest.
For the first time since the fire that took everything from her, Aeloria didn’t feel alone.
But somewhere beyond the iron fences, fate was watching.
And it was already closing in.
- Writer
