C16 Cinderella among the wolves

The sharp, acrid scent of smelling salts seared through my nostrils, pulling me out of the haze of unconsciousness. My body felt heavy, bound, as though I had been nailed to the ground. I tried to move my arms, but they were held down by rough ropes, the coarse fibers digging into my skin. There was a crackling sound behind me, like fire snapping and popping, but the heat felt distant, muted.

I could barely bring myself to speak, my throat raw, but the words tumbled out. “Mum?” I croaked, my voice thin and hoarse.

Her voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. “Don’t you dare ‘Mum’ me.”

The room swam into focus as I cracked open an eye, squinting against the dim light. She stood over me, a grim silhouette in the half-light. Her face was haggard, drawn tight with exhaustion and something deeper. Her eyes were bloodshot, swollen from crying, dark circles under her eyes making her look hollow, as if the weight of what had happened to me had drained her of all warmth.

My heart ached seeing her like this. I opened my mouth, but the words stuck in my throat. It hurt to see her so broken. “It’s me,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her gaze hardened, and she snapped, “The shaman cut you right in front of my eyes. He bled you dry, Ayla.” Her voice trembled, thick with emotion. “There was a gash across your neck.” She took a step back, eyes flickering between disbelief and fear.

I swallowed, trying to steady myself, but the memories rushed back too quickly. “He slit my wrists, too,” I murmured.

Mum dropped the frying pan she had been holding, the sound of metal clattering against the floor loud in the silence that followed. She put both hands over her mouth, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “You... you felt that?” Her voice cracked.

I shook my head, but the ropes binding me to the table made the movement stiff and uncomfortable. “No,” I said softly. “My soul left my body. I saw everything that happened, but I wasn’t... I wasn’t really there. It really is me, Mum.”

She took a step back, her hands trembling as she ran them through her hair, shaking her head slowly, as if trying to convince herself she wasn’t seeing a ghost. “How do I know you’re not... one of them? A preternatural?”

The word hit me like a slap. The fear in her voice—how she questioned if I was still truly her daughter—stung deep. Ever since the Vampire King’s rise from the dead, stories of the living dead had been everywhere. People who died, only to be brought back without their souls, twisted into something else entirely. Mum must’ve been thinking the same thing about me—that I was a corpse walking around without the soul she knew.

“What do the articles say about telling them apart from the living?” I asked, forcing myself to focus.

She hesitated, her eyes darting away. “I... I don’t remember.”

“Look it up,” I pressed, my voice rougher now, more insistent.

Mum shuffled away to her bedroom, and I heard the soft click of her phone as she started scrolling, tapping frantically on the screen. I let out a long, shaky breath, my mind racing. I hated this. I hated that I was putting her through this, that she had to question whether I was even me anymore.

A few minutes passed, and then I heard her voice, low and hesitant, as she read aloud from the screen. “Alright... here it says that a powerful necromancer can make a preternatural look like a living person. They can mimic their magic, their powers, their... life.”

I tried to stay still, but my heart started pounding.

Mum continued, voice growing quieter with every word. “They can perform a surface glamor. Warm your skin, make you breathe, even mimic a heartbeat.” She stopped, lips pressing together tightly. “But...”

“What?” I asked, desperate.

Her lips tightened. “It says here... I have to cut you. To see if you can bleed.”

I closed my eyes, the image of my body—cold and lifeless, throat slit—flashing behind my eyelids. I could feel the chill of death creeping up my spine. “Do it,” I whispered, the words coming out more like a prayer than a demand.

“Ayla,” Mum’s voice was full of hesitation, thick with the weight of what she was about to do. But she didn’t wait for me to say anything more. She raised the knife.

“This is the only way you’ll know I’m really here,” I said, my voice tight, fighting the tremor in my chest.

Sweat trickled down my face, each drop a reminder of the fear I hadn’t expected to feel—fear of blades, fear of being touched in this way. Until this moment, I thought I had processed everything: the death, the descent into Hell, the unexpected return. But this? The sharp edge of the knife drawing near my skin, the thought of it cutting me, added a fresh layer of dread.

Mum hesitated, then sliced across my arm. The pain was instant, sharp, and I flinched hard, biting back a cry. She pulled away quickly, fumbling with the ropes around my wrists. I could feel my heart racing.

“Is this enough for you?” I asked through clenched teeth, fighting the impulse to pull away from the blade, from her.

Her hand shook as she glanced down at the cut. "I had to use nullstone," she murmured.

I blinked, confusion clouding my thoughts. “Nullstone?”

“I don’t know what it means either,” she admitted, a bitter edge to her voice, “but it’s supposed to be something that can sever your connection if you’re... not alive. If you’re not really... you.”

It didn't make sense, but I wasn’t about to argue. If it was what Mum needed to believe, then it was enough for me. I didn’t care how she’d convinced herself—it was enough to stop the questions swirling in her head.

The ropes finally loosened, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Mum didn’t waste a second, helping me up to the couch. Her arms wrapped around me tightly, almost too tightly, as if she thought I might slip away again. I leaned into her, my own arms around her back, trying to steady her as her body trembled with quiet, painful sobs.

There were so many things I wanted to say, so many people I wanted to scream at. Alpha Gundahar. The shaman who had cut me open. Beowulf, who could’ve stopped it all. But most of all, Frida. If she hadn’t used Mum as a pawn, I might have had a chance to escape—if only she hadn’t been the one to make them hold the knife to my throat.

I pulled away just slightly, enough to look into Mum's eyes, but the moment she saw me fully, it was like something cracked in her. “How... how are you alive?” she asked, her voice small, full of disbelief. Her hands cupped my face, her thumb brushing over my cheek as though she needed to make sure I was real.

“I met Fenrir,” I said, the words heavy in the air.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Fenrir? The wolf?”

I let out a sigh, a bitter smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “He’s a shifter. And a god.”

Mum’s eyes widened. “Did you meet him in Asgard? He must have been merciful to send you back.”

I winced at the word. Merciful wasn’t exactly how I would describe Fenrir. Dominating. Arrogant. Fierce. But merciful? Hardly.

“No,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “Actually, we made a bargain.”

Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “A bargain? What could he possibly want from you?”

I hesitated, unsure how to even begin explaining. But I couldn’t avoid it. “He sent me back to find a way to free him. He’s stuck in a pocket dimension. In Hell.”

Mum froze, her hands falling to her sides as the words hung heavy in the air between us. Her eyes narrowed, a quiet suspicion creeping into her gaze. “If someone put him there... if someone trapped him in Hell, there’s probably a good reason for it.”

I felt the heat rise in my chest, the frustration building. “It’s his sister,” I blurted out. “It’s... it’s a sibling rivalry thing.”

She stared at me, her lips pressed tight, clearly not fully convinced. I ran a hand through my hair, grimacing as I hit the sore spot where she’d hit me with the skillet earlier. Reaching up to massage my shoulder, I could feel the tightness in the muscles from the tension, the fear that had gripped me since I came back.

Then Mum’s gaze flicked to my chest. I saw her eyes widen in realization, but before she could speak, she pressed her hand to her mouth in shock. She wasn’t looking at my face anymore. Her eyes were locked onto something else—something deeper. Something I hadn’t noticed before. Something that had changed when I came back.