The Wolf’s Insight

7

The morning was a relentless blur of physical exertion, a necessary distraction from the suffocating weight of my own thoughts. I spent the hours deep within the forests bordering the town, pushing my body until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned, trying to outrun the phantom scent of chestnuts and bay leaves that haunted every breath I drew. Chase had a date with his mate, a prospect that clearly occupied every corner of his mind. He was radiant, glowing with a happiness that felt both enviable and alien. As for me, I had a mission that weighed heavier than stone. Tonight, we were scheduled to reach the next town. If she wasn't there—if this second attempt failed—I wasn't sure I could survive the crushing disappointment.

To drown out the incessant chatter of my own mind, I shifted. The transformation was a familiar, jarring process, a rush of cold air meeting skin that felt too sensitive. In my lupine form, the world was not a place of sight, but a tapestry of vibrations, heat signatures, and scents. Since the "incident"—the day the light died and the silver took hold—my wolf had evolved. My fur, once a muted ash-grey, was now laced with brilliant, iridescent strands of silver that caught the filtered sunlight. Whenever Chase and I ran together through the dense timber, he teased me, calling me a "shooting star." I had hated it at first, a vanity I couldn't afford, but over time, the nickname had become a part of our rhythm, a testament to the endurance we shared.

I ran for over an hour, a blur of silver and grey through the undergrowth. When I finally shifted back, the transition left me spent. I collapsed onto a moss-covered boulder, my chest heaving as I drank in the forest's breath. It was a complex, beautiful aroma—damp earth, decaying leaves, the crisp sweetness of pine needles, and the faint, lingering scent of morning dew. I listened to the forest's internal clock: the erratic rustling of branches stirred by the wind, the high, melodic calls of birds nestled in the canopy, and the distant, rhythmic gait of a deer moving through the brush. I let go of everything, allowing my body to simply exist. The cool wind played over my bare skin, and the occasional, weak rays of sun that broke through the canopy felt like a warm hand pressed against my chest, limbs, and face.

For a moment, I was at peace. I was part of the forest, a creature of instinct and shadow. But the silence of the woods soon invited the ghosts of memory. 

"Focus, Kaelen. The pain will pass, just hold on." My father’s voice echoed in the cathedral of my mind. It was the day of my first shifting. I had been only six, far younger than the average for a wolf of my rank, but the internal clock of my blood had refused to wait. I had been stepping out of our home, ready to shadow my father into the woods, when a sudden, volcanic pressure exploded in my chest, slamming me into the dirt. 

The pain hadn't been a warning; it was a total reclamation of my humanity. In five seconds, the agony had permeated every cell, reaching into the very marrow of my bones. I remember the white-hot desire to scream, the desperate, childish urge to weep, and the pride that had held them back. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be worthy. 

I had writhed in the grass, a mess of limbs and raw, unfiltered suffering. My father had knelt behind me, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of my back, a steady anchor in the storm of my own body turning against me. 

"It’s alright. It’s almost over," he had repeated like a mantra, his voice a calm counterpoint to the sickening sound of my bones snapping and reforming. My spine elongated, my skull reshaped itself, and my limbs stretched into new, lethal proportions. My tail, an extension of my very existence, sprouted at the base of my spine. By the time the dust settled and the agonizing heat cooled, I was covered in thick, ash-grey fur—my father's legacy, now stained by the trauma of my own rebirth. He had approached me then, his movements slow and reverent, his calloused palm tracing the line behind my ears. "You were strong, Kaelen. So very strong."

The memory was shattered by the obnoxious, cheery sound of Chase’s boots on the trail. "Hey, Shooting Star! Did you lose your clothes again after groping around the entire forest?"

I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. "No," I replied with a languid, nonchalant shrug, the sarcasm acting as a shield. "I was actually hoping you’d bring your mate along so I could find someone to compare your temper to."

Chase let out a sharp, annoyed sound. "Sympathetic as always, I see."

"I learn through osmosis, brother," I said, moving to gather my discarded clothes. "How is it you’re here, and not with her?"

"Don’t you notice anything strange, my dear Beta?" Chase asked, his tone suddenly laced with an Alpha’s expectation.

"What? Did you get a haircut? Because if so, I really should remind you that I can't see the damn thing," I said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across my face.

"Gods, how your mate is going to tolerate you is a mystery only the Moon Goddess can solve! No, you idiot. I’m here to tell you it’s two o'clock. You have ninety minutes to scrub the scent of 'wild wolf' off yourself, change, and get to the station. We’re moving." He shoved my shoulder, his voice echoing my mother’s old, bossy tones.

"Yes, mother. Seriously, it's two?" I asked, genuinely stunned. I usually tracked time by the angle of the sun against my skin, but I had been so lost in the past that the world had slipped away.

"Yes, and move! The sooner we sort this out, the sooner I get back to the woman who is going to be our Luna." He didn't wait for a response, just kept pushing me forward, back toward the path that led to our temporary home.

An hour later, we were polished, packed, and standing in the wretched, echoing expanse of the train station, waiting for the connection to Vanderhoof. I was vibrating with a frantic energy, every nerve ending flared, trying to catch a stray molecule of her scent. 

Chase was behind me, far more at ease. He was leaning against a pillar, his thumbs flying over his phone screen. I could hear the rapid-fire tap-tap-tap of his texting. I had always despised that sound; it felt like a woodpecker drilling into the back of my brain. I had asked him, on more than one occasion, to mute the damn thing. But if I was blind, Chase was apparently tone-deaf to my suffering. I assumed it was some kind of arrogant Alpha gene.

I clicked my tongue, a small, sharp sound, using the echoes to map the station. It was crowded—the frantic rush of a weekend. Students, travelers, locals—the air was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies and expensive perfumes. I found myself wishing I could see their faces, to read the stories of their lives in the lines around their eyes. Instead, I had to settle for the cacophony of their voices.

The screech of an approaching train tore through the air, vibrating in the very foundation of the station. I turned my head toward the sound, narrowing my eyes. "Hey, Red Eyes, is that our train?"

Chase stepped up beside me, his presence a comforting weight. "Yes, Shooting Star. Let's get going."

We boarded the train, weaving through the crowded carriage to find our seats. As soon as I settled in, Chase leaned over, his tone dropping into a warning. "Alright, Kaelen. We’ve got two hours ahead of us. Please, for the love of the Goddess, do something other than frantically sniffing the air for a ghost."

"With all due respect, Chase," I replied, a small, weary smile ghosting my lips, "mind your own business."