The wolf’s paw slipped on a patch of ice hidden under the snow, he sneered as his face slammed into the hard ice as another puff of wide attacked him. The other two looked back at him, cautiously moving ahead of him as they made their way up the mountain.
The one with the black fur rolled his eyes at the brown’s incompetence. It was a rookie move to disregard the ice hidden under the fresh snow just as a storm was currently brewing.
A rumble of thunder crashed against the earth, it was peculiar how nature worked, snow, thunder, and lightning, all at once, it was a once-in-a-millennium occasion. Perhaps a sign from the God of Nature himself declaring his disapproval on behalf of Irene, the Goddess of Peace.
What audacity do they have to disturb the sacred peace that had been established in all the lands?
Such arrogance they had over a lover’s quarrel. Had they followed the natural order that Agapian set out when establishing the mating bond, such a pathetic display could have been avoided.
The wolf with the blonde fur purposefully flicked snow on Brown as he haughtily passed him. For a wolf whose pack prided itself on honour, such superiority complexes apparently could not be avoided.
Another clap of thunder roared through as the God of Nature deeply disapproved of the pathetic displays these so-called alphas brought upon themselves. A gust of wind whipped their furs up as their arrector pilli muscle became activated against the cold wind and flurries that aggressively sailed through.
The three wolves dug their claws into the ice to gain a grip as they trekked their way up the tortuous peak of the mountain. Their eyelids were half-closed in an attempt to shield them from the flurries, their sight already obscured by said snowflakes, they could barely look past their noses from the wrath of the God of Nature.
But vengeance, honour, and vindication made it worth it.
She felt drops of a cold liquid on her face, then suddenly a splash. Sitting up while gasping for air, coughing as the liquid, presumably water made its way into her nose and down her throat. What a horrible feeling as her nostrils burned.
“Sorry,” she heard someone squeak, she looked to see her well-meaning cousin laughing nervously. Ah Georgie, sweet, good-natured and well-meaning Georgie.
She was handed a towel, which she used to wipe her voice, her voice hoarse as she said, “Couldn’t you have shaken me?”
“We tried,” said her aunt, “But you were more out of it this time.”
“They’re getting stronger,” Freya mumbled under her breath. She groaned, running a hand through her copper hair in frustration, “Why can’t a control them?”
Four years ago, on her 21st birthday, her auramancic abilities emerged, a peculiar event as the magic gene in her family was diluted by the dominant werewolf gene. Freya had stayed up the night before with her cousin and aunt, waiting for midnight to strike as the 21st birthday of a werewolf marked the end of their coming-of-age, where half of their soul was completed in preparation for meeting their other half.
Their fated mate.
Not that Freya believed she had one.
The minute the clock struck twelve, Freya felt her head grow heavy and her body falling. The next thing she knew, she saw a silver wolf with streaks of white with ice blue eyes at the edge of a cliff when suddenly, the ground he stood on began to crumble.
Freya remembered that vision, it was so vivid and clear, unlike the dreams she had when she slept. It was quite overwhelming, having felt like she was present and looking into someone’s life.
She remembered the cool breeze, the rustling of the trees, and the clear, blue sky with not a cloud in sight. No one but the silver wolf was there.
And her.
The next day, word got around to her aunt’s pack that an established veteran of the Meadow Stream Pack had died of unknown causes. Many speculated suicide given his deteriorating mental health.
The two events couldn’t possibly have been related.
Right?
Visions, as she liked to call them had originally been mistaken for a newfound lucid dreaming ability and her past trauma was blamed for her fainting spells as the doctors believed it to be translating into her body as her body relived its trauma. It was hypothesized that her 21st birthday had triggered such events.
Since she was born without a wolf.
Freya’s birth was infamously known as traumatic within the Meadow Stream Pack, used as a case study for wannabe doctors in what essentially not to do or let happen. Her mother, considered at an advanced age at the time when pregnant with her, had experienced bleeding throughout the pregnancy, which the doctors disregarded, claiming it to be normal for her “advanced maternal age”.
It was said that pack members had rushed to the Laursen House after hearing her mothers screaming in agony, only to find her in a puddle of blood around her while she clutched her round belly in pain. Her mother was only 27 weeks along.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Traumatic was what many doctors and midwives referred to the event as. An emergency c-section led to a premature infant with underdeveloped lungs, a low birth weight, and no wolf.
She was never supposed to survive past thirty days.
The wolf spirit in werewolves developed during the third trimester of pregnancy, it was why many women were bedridden as its development took much of the mother’s mind, body, and soul. It was a werewolf’s core, intertwined and woven through one’s heart and soul.
This was the essence that tethered to their other half.
Their fated mate.
Freya wasn’t exactly told what happened that led to the decision for an emergency c-section, however, what she did understand was that her wolf wouldn’t have survived her birth regardless due to her weak constitution. It was hypothesized in research articles that her wolf’s limiting strength at the beginning of the third trimester was the reason Freya even survived, a sacrifice for Freya to continue, even if it meant she would never be complete.
Born without a wolf, she was considered an automatic nuisance and burden to Meadow Stream, as a werewolf without a wolf spirit made her an easy target, for enemies outside the pack.
And within.
Her aunt soon grew worried as Freya began passing out more after the initial events, followed by peculiar events occurring afterwards. Visions of sinkholes that swallowed up whole packs manifested into the prestigious Dawn Pack being conquered by The Knight Pack. Lightening striking the ocean manifested into a tsunami in Vancouver, leading to floods on the western coast packs.
It was quite a stretch connecting the two, however, when Freya’s vision illustrated a grey wolf with buffy facial markings was covered in blood, and her Alpha’s son had gotten severely injured in a car accident, Freya and her aunt soon realized that it was no coincidence.
And that when they sought assistance from the Pack Elders, a group of honourable and prestigious members who created great impacts and significance in their packs. It was theorized that as she had been born without a wolf, the sourcery gene, which had been traditionally recessive had activated in compensation.
Despite its instability.
However, the full extent of her abilities was yet to be discovered.
“Freya,” Elder Monroe said, her former mentor leaning his weight against his wooden cane, Freya always thought of him resembling an aged Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre Dame with his long and prominent nose, shorter stature, and hunched back. The fabric of his navy robe swished as he sat in a chair in front of her.
It was then she had noticed that her aunt and cousin moved her to the couch, she wondered given their antics if they swung her like a hammock for fun in another attempt to wake her up, or maybe she’d find a bruise on her hip later if they accidentally knocked her into the coffee table.
She’d probably been really out of it.
He adjusted his round, gold-rimmed glasses, aggressively coughing as if there’d been phlegm stuck in his throat for half a century. “Freya,” he said, “It appears you’ve had a powerful vision given that you’ve passed out,” he sighed as if disappointed that their five years of hard work in trying to stabilize her powers were for nothing. “What was the vision?”
Freya told him about the three wolves, the mountain, and the tension between them as if they were competing against each other. She searched her brain as to what could have triggered such a vision, she tried to remember what she was doing. Her aunt had just informed her of the job opportunity in Meadow Stream, and told her to sleep on it…
“I was thinking about the war,” Freya whispered, she was now sitting up, her elbows on her knees as she stared at the coffee table in front of her, the glass vase that held a disfigured version of her face where her nose was bigger than her head and her eyes of too far wide apart reflected at her.
“The trigger, “ he mumbled, rubbing his chin as he stared off to the side. He turned back to look at her, his dark eyes meeting her grey ones, “Freya, it seems you’re meant to go back to Meadow Stream-”
She interrupted him, standing, “What?!”
“Atalane wants you to go back, that’s why she sent you the message.”
“Are you on the waiting list for an insane asylum?!” She was now pacing back in forth trying to contain herself. She felt as if she was going to burst, the blood in her body pumped viciously through her and her brain was scattered, buzzing as if she had sensory overload. She wanted to scream, but she already lost her composure when she questioned the function of his prefrontal cortex.
She was Freya Laursen, a regular midwife who struggled to pass her way through school because she took on more than she could handle. Attempting to fake it till she made it until someone realized how incompetent she was at her job.
She was Freya Laursen, the wolfless werewolf that was nothing special, where the fates felt bad for her that they gave her powers that she had no control over.
She was Freya Laursen, the epitome of standing on a tightrope with no training, while everyone around her held their breaths as they waited for her to fall.
She was Freya Laursen…
Nothing.
Elder Monroe banged his cane into the floor, snapping Freya out of her internal rant, she looked at him with tears in her eyes as he stood up to leave, “The path is set out for you, whether to take it or not is up to you,” and he left.
Freya stared at the white door, trying to rationalize everything. Elder Monroe had said that her vision was triggered by thinking about the war, so her vision probably had something to do with that. It was somehow a sign that she should accept the job and go back to Meadow Stream. But why?
Freya jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder, she saw her aunt guiding her back to sit on the couch, holding both of Freya’s hands in her soft, warm ones, “He’s right, sweetheart,” she said. “You were given a gift and that gift is telling you something, they need your help.”
Her aunt knew her weakness, she refused to turn her back on people who needed her help, and her parental figure for the last nine years knew that Freya would never forgive herself if anything bad happened when she could’ve stopped it.
She was conflicted, this was Meadow Stream, the origin of all her terrors in her youth, they probably still saw her as the weak little girl who was sent away because she couldn’t handle a “little teasing”. To them, she was fragile little Freya.
“You could show them how far you’ve come,” Georgie said, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of them. “You’d be their saviour, Freya!”
Saviour.
Perhaps they were right, that this was fate and Freya’s chance to help those that once overlooked her, to prove herself and show them that they were wrong about her.
If only she could figure out what the vision meant.