The First Shift

Freya's P.O.V:

Two quiet weeks bleed by since the horrific kitchen incident. I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingertips over my forearms, tracing the sensitive, raw pink skin where the severe burns have mostly healed. Martha’s constant care worked miracles on the blistering flesh, but the real relief comes from the unexpected silence in my life. Thankfully, the Triplets keep their distance. They don't seek me out to throw punches. They don't hurl their usual venomous insults when I pass by.

Silas occasionally stops by Martha’s house. He never steps past the threshold, just asking in a low, tight murmur about the progress of my healing hands. I prefer their silence over their presence. Six years of relentless torment do not just vanish because an Alpha feels a fleeting moment of guilt.

Even Gamma Malachi returning to the packhouse today couldn't ruin my soaring mood. We crossed paths in the main hallway, and he shot me his trademark glare—a look so thick with disgust it made my stomach turn—but I just kept walking with my head held high. Tomorrow is finally my eighteenth birthday. Tomorrow, I am finally going to meet my wolf. I don't care about the Gamma's hatred or the omegas sneering at me. I only care about the beast waiting beneath my skin.

I retreat to the better, more comfortable guest room on the second floor. I never wanted to take this room. I didn't want their pity. But Silas had stood in the doorway, his eyes dark, and commanded me to take it using his potent Alpha voice. The sheer, crushing force of his command left me no choice but to obey. Now, I find a peaceful solace in the quiet space, sitting on the plush mattress with a book in my lap.

It is an ancient, leather-bound book about werewolf mates that Martha gave me last week. The pages smell like dust and dried pine. I trace the worn text on the page with my index finger, absorbing the sacred lore. *Your mate is made to love you. You are incomplete without them, and they are incomplete without you.* I drag my finger down to the next paragraph. *Nobody can defeat the Matebond. Hurting your mate will be equal to hurting the Moon Goddess.*

A small, hopeful smile forms on my lips. I close the heavy cover and set the book on the nightstand. Pulling the thick blankets over my shoulders, I finally close my heavy eyes. I drift to sleep, dreaming of a strong, fated mate. A warrior destined by the Goddess to love me, cherish me, and never, ever hurt me. I will be loved. I will finally be safe.

The next morning, I wake up with a fluttering heart. Sunlight streams through the frosted windowpane, signaling the start of the most important day of my life. I sit up, reach into my small wooden box on the bedside table, and pull out my dad's silver locket. The cool metal grounds me as I securely clasp it around my neck. It is the only piece of him I have left. I hold the pendant in my palm, wiping away a stray tear as I desperately wish he could be here to witness my very first shift. He would be so proud.

A sharp knock on the bedroom door interrupts my nostalgic thoughts.

"Yes?" I call out, clearing the emotion from my throat.

"It's me," Callum replies through the wood.

"Come inside." I wipe my eyes hastily and sit up straighter.

The door swings open, and my stomach drops. Callum steps into the room looking unusually tense. He is dressed in full travel gear—dark tactical clothing, heavy combat boots, and a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. He doesn't carry the relaxed demeanor of a man coming to wish me a happy birthday.

"What's wrong, Callum?" I ask, my voice laced with suspicion.

He sighs, running a rough hand over his jaw. "I have to leave the territory immediately, Freya. I'm heading to the Crimson Night pack for a week or so."

"Why?" I stand up, panic spiking in my chest. "Aren't our pack's defenses enough?" The Blood Moon pack is the strongest in the world. We have faced countless attacks and never once had to beg for outside help.

Callum's expression turns grim, the lines around his eyes deepening. "It’s dangerous, Freya. We desperately need to secure a military alliance. A massive, lethal rogue army is currently occupying strong packs in the region. These aren't just unorganized strays. Their vast numbers overwhelm our pack's current defensive lines. If they hit us now, we need backup."

A heavy dread settles over my shoulders. Callum is my sole protector in this pack. Without him, I am left defenseless to the Triplets' moods and the pack's cruelty. But my dad’s voice echoes in my head, a harsh reminder from my childhood. *Before your life, comes the pack.* He always placed duty above all else.

I swallow the lump of anxiety forming in my throat. I force the corners of my mouth up, offering Callum a brave, reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Callum," I tell him, pushing down my own fear. "The pack comes first. You have to go."

He lets out a heavy breath, the tight posture of his shoulders relaxing slightly. He opens his strong arms wide. "I love you, little Freya," he says warmly.

I rush forward, throwing my arms around his waist. He pulls me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair and pressing a firm kiss to the top of my head.

"I love you too, donkey," I reply playfully, trying my best to lighten the suffocating mood hanging in the room.

He softly slaps the back of my head in retaliation, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. We share one last, lingering hug, holding on just a second longer than usual. Then he steps back, gives me a final nod, and turns to leave the house. His heavy footsteps fade down the hallway, and his departure leaves an empty, chilling void behind. I am truly alone.

I spend the rest of the day in isolation, my nerves buzzing with electric anticipation. Close to midnight, I slip out of the quiet house and venture deep into the freezing, snow-covered forest. I walk alone. The icy wind bites at my exposed cheeks, biting through my thin jacket, but the cold barely registers over the pounding of my heart. I push past thick bushes and weave through towering pine trees until I reach the very center of the woods.

The moonlight cuts through the canopy, illuminating a massive, ancient oak tree. I walk over to its sprawling roots. My fingers fumble with the clasp of my dad's precious locket. I take it off and carefully leave it inside a small, secure box, tucking it safely between the roots. I step back into the clearing and slowly strip off my clothes. The freezing night air hits my bare skin, raising goosebumps across my arms and legs, but I stand tall, waiting.

The distant packhouse clock tower strikes exactly twelve.

The first chime rings out, and an explosive, agonizing pain erupts through my chest. I gasp, my eyes widening in shock. It feels like a sledgehammer just shattered my ribcage. My bones begin to crack and snap with brutal force, the sickening sound of breaking cartilage echoing through the silent forest. I stumble forward, my legs giving out, and fall hard to my knees in the snow.

My skin burns, searing hot, as if I've been thrown directly into a blazing fire. I clutch my stomach, screaming in sheer agony as my spine bows unnaturally. My vertebrae shift, forcefully rearranging themselves to accommodate a beast's frame. I claw at the snow, tears blurring my vision. I knew the first shift would hurt, but this is pure torture.

A sharp, piercing pain shoots through my jaw. My sharp canines ruthlessly tear through my aching gums, shredding the tender flesh. The metallic taste of blood floods my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut, gasping for breath through the torment.

Then comes one final, excruciating, full-body attack of pain. Every nerve ending ignites. My chest expands rapidly, pulling in a massive gulp of the freezing air. My human scream organically morphs, deepening in pitch and power, until it erupts into a powerful, resonant howl that shakes the very trees around me.

The pain stops.

I blink, my vision adjusting to the dark. Everything is sharper. The scent of pine and damp earth is intoxicating. I push myself up onto four paws, panting heavily as my massive chest heaves. I trot over to a frozen puddle near the edge of the clearing and catch my reflection in a broken piece of discarded mirror leaning against a rock.

I stare at the glass, stunned.

My wolf is gorgeous. She boasts a coat of thick, silky white fur that glimmers ethereally under the moonlight. There is not a single blemish on her. Her eyes are what trap my gaze—blood-red irises that burn with a dangerous, fiery intensity. She naturally radiates the elegant, unyielding aura of an undisputed queen. She looks fierce, regal, and terrifyingly powerful.

I lower my massive head, the heavy weight of my miserable past dragging down my newfound awe.

'She's stuck with a piece of trash like me,' I murmur sadly in the confines of my own mind, feeling unworthy of such a majestic creature. After six years of being treated worse than dirt, I cannot fathom how I deserve her.

'You're not a trash.'

A fierce, powerful voice booms back inside my head, startling me. The sheer force of her tone rattles my skull.

'I'm Isolde.'

Her presence slams into my consciousness. We bond instantly, her unshakeable confidence merging perfectly with my bruised mind. She doesn't hesitate. She takes control of my doubts and crushes them beneath her mental weight.

'I'm Freya,' I reply, still reeling from the connection.

'Let's run,' she demands.

I take off for a test run through the dense woods. My powerful hind legs launch us forward, eating up the distance in massive bounds. The frigid wind whips through our thick white fur. I quickly realize that Isolde is blindingly fast, dodging ancient tree trunks and leaping over frozen streams with effortless grace. She is sharp and perceptive, calculating every move, and brimming with unyielding confidence.

When I hesitantly express my deep-seated insecurities about my worth, fearing she will eventually resent me, she fiercely shuts them down.

'Do not insult us, Freya. You are strong. You are beautiful. We are a queen,' she reassures me with absolute certainty. Her fierce protection wraps around my soul. For the very first time in six agonizing years, I have someone who will always stay by my side without question. I am no longer alone.

We run for hours, claiming the forest as our own, until the sky begins to lighten. We return to the ancient oak tree. Shifting back into my fragile human form is just as painful as the initial transformation. My bones snap back into place, forcing me to the ground. I pant heavily, my bare skin pressed against the freezing snow.

I push myself up, my muscles trembling slightly, and get dressed in the freezing air. I secure my dad's locket around my neck and begin the long walk back to the packhouse.

As my boots crunch against the snow, I realize something is wrong. I don't feel the typical, debilitating post-shift weakness that usually plagues newly shifted wolves. Most teenagers are bedridden, their bodies drained of all energy. Instead, my muscles hum with a vibrating energy. My steps are light, my senses sharp. I feel exceptionally strong, as if the shift unlocked a hidden reservoir of power inside me.

I flex my hands, marveling at the weird, pulsing strength beneath my skin. I am deep in thought about this newfound, strange physical power, wondering what it means for my future in this pack, when the wind suddenly shifts.

Without warning, three distinct, potent scents hit my nose, freezing me dead in my tracks.