C9 Cinderella among the wolves

Mum's soft sobs drifted into my awareness, pulling me from the murky depths of unconsciousness. That sound—it had been the background melody of my childhood, as familiar as the creak of our old wooden floorboards or the rustle of wind through the cracks in our shack.

When I was little, she would hold me tightly at night, her body curled protectively around mine as she cried into the darkness, her tears soaking into the thin blanket that shielded us from the cold. Later, when Beowulf rose to power and Council handouts brought us a semblance of stability, her sobs carried through the paper-thin walls, haunting my nights. No matter how much changed, her grief had remained a constant presence.

As my vision cleared, I found myself staring up at a sky filled with scattered stars, a pale veil of clouds brushing against the moon. The light they cast painted the night in an eerie silver haze. I tried to speak, to reassure her, to tell her I was okay. But my body betrayed me. My limbs were heavy, unresponsive, and an unnerving silence sat where my heartbeat should have been.

“Are you there?” I called out to my wolf, desperation coloring my thoughts.

Nothing. Not even a whisper.

“Wake up,” I tried again, my mental voice trembling. Silence answered, deafening and absolute.

A face loomed into view, blocking out the sky. Clawley. His amber eyes were wide, glistening with emotion as they scanned my unmoving form. His breaths came quick and shallow, and his lip trembled as he whispered, “No... no, this can’t be happening.”

I wanted to tell him I was fine, that I wasn’t gone. But his words shattered any hope I had clung to.

“She’s... she’s gone,” he choked, his voice breaking.

Gone? My thoughts stumbled over the word. No. That couldn’t be right. My breath would catch. My heart would stutter. My soul would quiver in disbelief. But nothing. I was trapped in stillness, staring helplessly into his stricken face.

Fangley appeared beside him, his expression twisted in the same anguish I’d seen years ago when Beowulf defeated Alpha Mondo. “She didn’t deserve this,” he muttered, his voice low.

“If we’d asked her to join us earlier, maybe things would have been different,” Clawley whispered, his tone thick with regret.

“It’s too late for regrets,” Fangley replied sharply. “At least we can still help her mum. She’s not handling this well.”

A gut-wrenching wail pierced the night, ripping through me like a blade. Mum. Her agony was raw, unfiltered, a sound that spoke of a heart breaking beyond repair. My wings twitched instinctively at the sound, but the rest of me remained frozen, trapped in this strange limbo.

Clawley’s shoulders sagged as he turned away, his voice a soft murmur. “She’ll need someone to take care of her. She can’t go through this alone.”

As they moved out of view, I silently screamed for them to return, to do something—anything. But the world remained quiet save for the sound of Mum’s muffled cries.

A shadow shifted, and a new figure emerged, stepping into the pale glow of the moonlight. He was taller than anyone I’d ever seen, his presence commanding and otherworldly. His blond curls shimmered like molten gold, and his chiseled face seemed to hold a strange kind of divinity, framed by a mane of hair that caught the silver light.

He didn’t speak right away, just stared at me with an expression that sent a shiver down my spine—an unsettling mix of awe and sorrow. His eyes, glowing like quicksilver, were locked onto my lifeless form.

I wanted to sneer, to demand what was so fascinating about a dead girl with broken wings. But I was helpless, my thoughts a silent protest as he knelt beside me.

“Ayla Gerrison,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the weight of ages.

“Can you hear me?” I whispered in my mind, unsure if he could.

“Loud and clear,” he replied aloud, his lips curving into a faint smile.

“What’s happening?” My mental voice trembled.

“You’ve crossed the veil,” he said, his tone almost gentle. “I am here to guide your soul to its next destination.”

“Right.” My mind raced with a thousand desperate questions. What did one say to someone claiming your soul? “Will it...hurt?”

The man—no, the being—crouched beside my lifeless body, his gaze piercing through me like he could see every fear and secret I’d ever harbored. Slowly, he extended a hand, its glow faint yet commanding. “Rise.”

“How?” My voice quivered, but I wasn’t sure if it was from fear, defiance, or the strange pull he had over me.

Without a word, he plunged his hand into my chest. The sensation was instant and all-consuming—a jolt of something ancient and raw that surged through my veins. Pain and ecstasy fused together in a way that felt both unbearable and divine. Every nerve lit up, awakening like they’d been asleep for centuries.

I gasped, air rushing into my lungs like I was breathing for the first time. My heart thundered, pounding with a force that felt foreign yet mine. Heat coursed through me, wrapping around every inch of my body in a rush of overwhelming vitality.

A ragged breath escaped my lips. “What…what is this?”

He stood, pulling me effortlessly to my feet. His hand lingered a moment longer, and his touch sent tremors rippling through me. The look he gave me—predatory, hungry—made my skin prickle.

“You’ve never encountered one like me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

I tried to pull away, but his presence was magnetic, overpowering. Goosebumps spread across my arms, and I instinctively crossed them over my chest, as though shielding myself from his piercing gaze.

“What’s your name?” I stammered, needing something, anything, to anchor me.

A sly grin spread across his face, one that lacked any trace of kindness. “A modest shifter? How rare.”

“Who are you?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my knees threatened to buckle under his intense scrutiny.

He tilted his head, examining me as though I were some fascinating creature he’d just discovered. His golden eyes burned brighter, and a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Are you…a reaper?” I asked hesitantly.

“No.”

“An angel?” My voice barely rose above a whisper.

He shook his head, the grin never wavering. There was something sharp and animalistic in the way he moved, his every gesture calculated yet untamed.

“Then what are you?” I forced myself to meet his eyes, even as my stomach twisted with dread.

He gestured behind me, and I turned, freezing at the sight before me. My body—my real body—lay crumpled on the grass, motionless and pale. My hair, usually vibrant, fanned out like a broken halo around my head. The gashes on my wrists and throat told the story of how I’d died. Not in battle, not in some heroic sacrifice, but drained and discarded like I was nothing.

I choked on the lump rising in my throat, the reality of my death hitting me like a tidal wave. “They...bled me out.”

His voice, low and reverent, broke through the fog of despair. “Your mate sacrificed you to me on this altar. The sigil around your neck bound your soul to mine the moment you died.”

My fingers brushed against the hollow of my throat, where the weight of a pendant should have been. Anger and grief warred within me. “You’re Fenrir,” I whispered, realization dawning.

He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “And you, Ayla Gerrison—what are you?”

The words stuck in my throat. Mum had always said I carried the blood of alphas, but it had felt more like a curse than a blessing. Now, with Fenrir towering over me, demanding answers, I didn’t know what to say.

“Who was the she-wolf with you? Your mother?” His tone softened slightly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “And your father?”

I glanced toward the guest house, panic clawing at my chest. The scene was disturbingly pristine, as though my death hadn’t even left a ripple. “Where is she? Where’s my mother?”

Fenrir’s gaze followed mine, his expression unreadable. “The wolf’s brother took her away,” he said, nodding toward Fangley. My stomach clenched as I saw him drape his leather jacket over my lifeless form, his face etched with regret.

“Who is he to you?” Fenrir asked, his voice dipping low, almost taunting.