My name is Ravena Thorn, and according to my pack, I should not exist.
Red hair is rare for humans, but for wolves… it's a warning. A symbol carved deep into our oldest records. The omen of a wolf born under the "Crimson Moon," cursed to bring change—good or bad, depending on who survived the last prophecy.
Lucky me.
I grew up hearing people whisper the same thing every time I walked past:
"Keep your distance."
"Don't meet her eyes."
"Red wolves are dangerous."
As if I didn't already know,
I wasn't born into privilege. My family name, Thorn, belonged to a long, broken line of wolves who always seemed to be on the wrong side of history. We weren't royalty, we weren't wealthy, and we definitely weren't one of those perfect, tight-bonded families who smiled in pack photos.
We were complicated. Messy. Stubborn.
Just like me.
My father, Garron Thorn, used to be one of the most respected wolves in our territory—an elite warrior known for his discipline, strategy, and terrifying calm. People said he could stand in the middle of a battlefield and breathe as if he were napping.
But the day I was born, he changed.
Some said he softened.
Some said he hardened.
I think he just… broke a little.
I was born on a stormy night, blood-red lightning ripping across the sky like claws. The midwives said the moment I came out, the glow of the Crimson Moon spread over the entire forest, painting my newborn hair a violent shade of red.
Some called it a sign.
Others called it a curse.
Only my father called it mine.
"Anyone touches her," he growled at the elders that same night, "and I'll rip out their throats."
I wasn't alive to remember it, but I've heard the story enough times to imagine it perfectly.
My mother, Elara, was the opposite of him. Warm, soft-spoken, easy to laugh. Wolves said she carried sunlight in her smile and spring in her scent—luck I never inherited. She used to stroke my hair when I was small and whisper,
"Being born different isn't a curse, Raven. It's a promise. You'll understand someday."
But I didn't.
Not then.
Growing up was… chaotic.
The other kids avoided me like I was a venomous snake. Even the adults kept their distance, always polite, always smiling, but never letting me too close. A few brave ones tried to be friendly—until their parents dragged them away.
"You can greet her, but don't play with her."
"Stay on the other side of the training yard."
"Remember what the archives said."
Ah yes. The archives. The ancient texts that claimed a red wolf would "shift the balance of power."
Whatever that meant.
At age six, I was smart enough to know people feared me.
At age eight, I learned to enjoy it.
Fear gave me space. Space gave me peace. And peace gave me freedom to train without anyone trying to "accidentally" knock me off balance.
"When they fear you," my father said once during training, "you don't have to fear them."
I think he was trying to be comforting. Instead, he accidentally set my entire personality in stone.
---
My first shift came at eleven—young for a wolf, and way too dramatic for my liking.
Wolves usually shift gently, guided by a mentor, family gathered to support them. Music, food, celebration.
Mine was not like that.
I shifted during a sparring session.
One moment, I was punching the training dummy; the next, a wave of heat crawled up my spine. My bones cracked, reshaped, broke again. My vision darkened, then exploded into colors too sharp, too wild.
I felt claws burst out of my hands.
Teeth tear through my gums.
Power, raw and ancient, flooding through every cell.
I remember hearing someone scream.
Funny thing is… it might have been me.
When it was over, when the trembling stopped and the world steadied, I opened my eyes and saw wolves on their knees. Not because they bowed, but because they fell in shock.
My fur, reflected in the training hall mirror, was the same violent red as my hair.
I looked like fire given flesh.
Like a living warning.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
My father approached me slowly, as if afraid I'd snap. Not because I was dangerous—I mean, I was—but because he didn't want to push me.
"Raven," he whispered, touching my head gently, "you're perfect."
But the elders didn't think so.
They held a private meeting the same night. They didn't say what was discussed, but I heard enough through the window:
"…unstable power…"
"…danger to the pack…"
"…prophecy…"
And then my father's voice, sharp as a blade:
"Touch my daughter and you'll regret not being born mute."
The meeting ended early.
---
My teenage years were… something else.
The stronger I grew, the more people avoided me.
The faster I ran, the more warriors whispered my name.
And the more my wolf matured, the more the prophecy rumors spread.
I didn't want attention.
I didn't want fear.
I didn't want some ancient destiny trying to control my life.
I just wanted to breathe.
"Don't look so angry all the time," my mother teased one morning as I prepared to train. "You're scaring the trees."
"They'll live," I muttered.
She laughed, kissed my head, and handed me a meat bun. I pretended I didn't love her cooking, but I ate three more before training.
My mother kept me grounded.
My father kept me sharp.
But destiny?
Destiny kept laughing at me.
---
By the time I turned seventeen, I could fight any adult warrior and win. My agility was faster, my strength sharper, my wolf more responsive. Wolves twice my age challenged me out of pride; wolves my age avoided me out of fear.
I didn't mind.
People assumed I trained nonstop because I wanted to be strong. They were wrong.
I trained because it was the one place where my mind quieted.
Punch. Block. Kick.
Strength, speed, strategy.
That was simple.
Life… wasn't.
"You fight like you're angry," my father said once.
I wiped sweat from my forehead. "Maybe I am."
"At what?"
"Everything."
He laughed. "Good. Use it."
My father wasn't the gentle-parenting type.
---
Despite everything, I still had dreams—secret ones I had never told anyone.
I wanted to travel.
See the other territories.
Taste foreign food.
Meet wolves who didn't look at me like I was a ticking bomb.
And maybe—just maybe—find someone who could look at me without flinching.
Not a mate.
Not love.
Just… someone who didn't see danger when they looked at me.
But dreams were expensive, and reality was cheap.
---
At eighteen, I was accepted into the elite warrior program. The youngest in history. People whispered about favoritism, but those same people wouldn't last two minutes sparring with me.
The program was brutal—physical, mental, emotional. Only the strongest wolves survived the first month.
I thrived.
Not because I was gifted, or special, or destined.
But because I refused to quit.
Every bruise made me sharper.
Every failure made me meaner.
Every victory made me hungry for more.
Some nights, when the world was quiet and the moon was full, I'd sit alone on the highest roof in the pack and whisper to myself:
"I am not a prophecy. I am not a curse. I am Ravena Thorn. And I decide my fate."
But life, as always, had other plans.
The year I completed my elite training, everything changed.
It began with a small shift in the wind—a scent that wasn't ours drifting through the trees. The border scouts whispered about strangers. The council grew cautious. The pack tightened defenses.
Rumor said nearby packs were restless.
Rumor said something big was coming.
Rumor said the balance of power was shifting.
I felt the change before anyone else.
My wolf paced inside me every night, restless, anxious, whispering in a voice I didn't yet understand.
They're coming.
Everything is about to change.
Everything you fear… everything you want… all of it is coming for you.
I didn't know it then, but my quiet life was already ending.
And the path ahead—dangerous, unpredictable, terrifying—had already begun.
I just hadn't met the wolves who would change everything yet.
But I would.
Soon.
Very soon.
And when they finally came into my life, growling, arrogant, impossible…
my story truly began.