C7 Cinderella among the wolves

Fate had shackled me to a cold, selfish tyrant who had spent years watching me suffer in silence. Even now, standing by my side, Beowulf radiated a dominance that only deepened my resentment. Pain tore through my shoulder blades, sharp and unforgiving, and I couldn’t stop the scream that burst from my throat.

Wolves around us had already completed their transformations, their sleek forms gliding across the lawn in pairs. Some playfully nipped at each other, unaware—or uncaring—that I was in agony.

A violent chill coursed through my body, and my skin prickled as though pierced by a thousand icy needles. I clutched my stomach, nausea rising like a tide, and let out a desperate, guttural cry.

Beowulf crouched beside me, his face shadowed with concern. “Ayla?” His voice was a strange mix of authority and worry, but it did little to comfort me.

Sweat blurred my vision, the salty drops stinging my eyes as I struggled to focus. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?” My voice cracked, trembling like the rest of me.

Beowulf’s jaw clenched as he surveyed me. “This isn’t normal.” He turned his head and barked, “Healer! Get over here!”

My body was no longer my own. Tremors wracked me, twisting and contorting me into shapes that felt alien. I gasped for air, choking on the bile rising in my throat. Was this a curse? The thought clawed its way into my mind. Maybe Beowulf had trusted the wrong person—someone who wanted me destroyed.

Terror gripped me as the realization dawned: I was going to die. I’d never leave this place, never see Mum safe, never know what it felt like to be truly free. I wouldn’t even have a chance to love someone who saw me as more than a burden.

Then, it happened. Two searing lines of heat slashed down my back, and I screamed so loudly my throat burned. Something hard and foreign broke through my skin, stretching and twisting in ways my body was never meant to endure. My diaphragm convulsed, and I retched violently, my body rebelling against itself.

The world around me erupted into chaos. Screams, growls, and shouts filled the air, drowning out my ragged breaths. The shaman’s chant halted with an audible gasp, and for a moment, everything felt suspended—like the world itself was holding its breath.

And then, as quickly as it started, the pain ebbed. Gasping, I glanced down at my front legs, but they weren’t mine anymore. Midnight-black fur covered them, shimmering with a deep indigo under the moonlight. Panic surged as I tried to move, but my wolf had already taken control.

She pushed us upright, our legs trembling like a fawn’s on its first day. Every step felt foreign, as though I was inhabiting someone else’s body. The world around us came into sharp focus, and I realized every pair of eyes was fixed on me. Beowulf’s expression was unreadable—somewhere between awe and horror.

“What... are you?” His voice was hoarse, his usual bravado swallowed by disbelief.

A low whine escaped me, vibrating through my chest. I didn’t have an answer for him—I barely understood what had just happened. The floating lights above flared brighter, casting a spotlight on the lawn and revealing the stunned faces of every wolf present. Even the alphas on the stage, usually composed and stoic, gawked as though I were a nightmare come to life.

“The beast of Valhalla...” The shaman’s voice trembled, magnified across the crowd.

Beast? My wolf stirred uneasily, and I glanced down at my paws—if you could even call them that. They were strange, hairless things, and an extra digit jutted out unnaturally. Dread coiled in my stomach like a viper.

“The beast foretold to bring Ragnarök,” the shaman continued, his tone climbing to a hysterical pitch.

Ragnarök. The end of the world. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat vibrating through my new form. This can’t be real.

“She must be destroyed!” Alpha Gundahar’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade, and the weight of his words sent a wave of icy fear crashing over me.

Alpha Morgan stood frozen, his jaw slack as he gawked at me like I was some twisted nightmare come to life.

My stomach churned violently, dread clawing at my insides. This couldn’t be happening. I turned desperate eyes to Beowulf, silently begging him to say something—anything—to defend me. Instead, he recoiled, his expression warped by disgust and disbelief.

The sight shattered something deep inside me.

“Father, wait!” Dolph’s voice rang out as he sprinted to the stage, his hands raised in supplication. “Ayla can shift back! Give her a chance. We can find someone to figure out what’s wrong—”

“Silence!” Alpha Gundahar’s roar cut through the air like a thunderclap. Without hesitation, he drove a massive fist into Dolph’s stomach. The younger man crumpled, gasping for air. Gundahar’s next blow to his temple sent Dolph crashing to the metallic stage, unconscious before he hit the ground.

I froze, horror rooting me to the spot. My jaw fell open, and a growl rumbled low in my throat. These people—this pack—they were unhinged. Over one strange shift, they’d decided I was some cursed monster.

Before I could process, a rough hand clamped down between my collarbones, grabbing me by the scruff. Panic flared, and I thrashed, snarling and snapping at the unseen attacker.

“Let her go,” Beowulf snarled, stepping forward. His voice was low and commanding, the tone of a man used to being obeyed. “No one touches what’s mine without my permission.”

I stopped struggling, a cold wave of disbelief sweeping over me. That’s all he could muster? No rage? No fight to protect me? Beowulf stood there, puffing out his chest like some territorial animal, more concerned with asserting dominance than saving me. My throat tightened, not with fear, but with a suffocating sense of betrayal.

Was that all I was to him? Something he owned?

A hollow ache spread through my chest as I realized the fragile bond I thought we had was a lie. My wolf whimpered softly, retreating into the back of my mind, wounded. But there was no time to mourn that loss—not when the crowd around me had branded me a beast and called for my blood.

I shoved my pain aside and forced myself to snarl, loud and feral. If they wanted to see a monster, I’d give them one.

Alpha Gundahar leapt from the stage, his fists clenched and his voice a booming snarl. “Kill her!”

A bolt of terror shot through me, and I didn’t wait for anyone to make the first move. With a burst of adrenaline, I spun on trembling legs and bolted. My paws barely touched the ground as I tore across the lawn, heart pounding like a war drum.

“Ayla!” Beowulf’s voice sliced through the chaos, laced with alpha magic. “I order you to stay!”

The command hit me like a crushing weight, pressing on my will, suffocating me. My steps faltered for a heartbeat. If my wolf had still been in control, it might have worked. But the betrayal burned hot in my veins, consuming every trace of submission. I dug deep, drawing on the fury roaring within me, and his command crumbled to ash.

“Seize her!” Beowulf bellowed, his voice echoing behind me.