Chapter 3: A Glimmer in the Valley

Cold rain poured relentlessly, soaking through my thin clothes, clinging to my skin, and stealing the last shred of warmth from my body.

I clutched a tattered bundle containing a few old belongings, trudging through the muddy wilderness. Each step sank into the sodden earth. Behind me, the silhouette of the Bloodclaw Pack’s grand castle blurred in the rain until it vanished entirely from sight.

Stripped of everything, penniless, and utterly alone—this was my reality. The “severance money” Lucas had promised was snatched away the moment I stepped out of the castle gates. His mother’s henchmen had been waiting in the shadows, claiming the wealth needed to be “accounted for as family assets.” They didn’t even bother with the pretense of civility, ensuring my ruin was absolute.

Hunger, cold, and exhaustion tore at me like three ravenous wolves, devouring my body and will. I didn’t know where to go or where I could even hope to find refuge. The vast Werewolf Territories had no place for someone like me—a rejected, infertile woman cast out by the Bloodclaw Pack.

I could feel the eyes of low-ranked werewolves lurking in the shadows, their gazes predatory. To them, I was nothing more than prey—vulnerable and ripe for the taking.

My foot slipped, and I fell heavily into a pit of mud. The icy water surged over my face, making it hard to breathe. I clawed my way upright, covered in filth and utterly humiliated.

Strength was rapidly draining from me. My vision blurred. Perhaps dying in this desolate wilderness would be a release. A person abandoned by the world, fading away in silence—wasn’t that exactly what they wanted?

No.

The faces of Lucas and his cruel mother burned in my mind like hot brands, their disdainful smirks searing my soul. The mocking stares of the pack members at the castle—those memories refused to fade.

I couldn’t accept this. Why should I die in such disgrace?

Clenching my teeth, I summoned what little strength I had left, crawling out of the mud and leaning against a barren, skeletal tree. It offered no shelter from the wind or rain, but at least it was something. Curling into myself, I waited as the cold and exhaustion pulled me closer to the edge of oblivion.

Then, just as darkness threatened to consume me entirely, a warmth approached. It wasn’t the invasive, aggressive scent of a werewolf. No, this was something else—clean, steady, with a faint aroma of herbs and greenery.

I forced my heavy eyelids open. Through my blurred vision, I saw a tall figure crouched in front of me. He wore a worn, faded cloak with the hood pulled low over his face, revealing only a strong jawline and a pair of calm, deep eyes that seemed to pierce through the stormy night.

He didn’t speak at first. Silently, he extended a steaming piece of coarse bread and a water pouch toward me. The smell of food awakened a primal hunger within me, but I hesitated.

I stared at him warily, unmoving. In a world like this, kindness often masked hidden traps.

Sensing my suspicion, he set the bread and water within my reach and took a step back. He maintained a distance that was non-threatening, giving me space.

“Eat,” he said, his voice low and steady, carrying an odd comfort like the wind rustling through pine trees. “Living is more important than anything else.”

Was this a miracle? His calm gaze held no pity, no ulterior motives—only a strange, almost sorrowful serenity. Against my better judgment, I reached out with trembling hands, grabbed the bread, and devoured it hungrily. The warmth of the food spread through me, pushing back the cold and giving me just enough strength to keep going.

When I finished, he offered me a dry, though equally worn, heavy cloak. “Put this on. Follow me. There’s a cave nearby where you can stay out of the rain.”

I hesitated, but the biting cold and the promise of warmth overpowered my doubts. Slowly, I rose and followed him. He didn’t offer to help me up, but his pace was slow enough for me to keep up despite my faltering steps.

The cave wasn’t large, but it was dry and shielded from the storm. He started a small fire, and the flickering orange light filled the space with a fragile warmth. Sitting by the fire, wrapped in his cloak, I felt the surreal relief of narrowly escaping death.

“Why are you helping me?” My voice was hoarse, raw from the cold and exhaustion.

He stirred the fire with a stick, his expression unreadable as he replied, “The despair in your eyes doesn’t match the light in your soul.”

I froze, stunned. Light in my soul? Me? A woman deemed worthless, cast aside as nothing more than a barren failure—what light could possibly remain?

He turned to face me, and for a moment, his gaze seemed to pierce through me, seeing something far deeper than the surface. “Bloodline judgments are not absolute truths. Especially when those making them are ignorant.”

My heart skipped a beat. What did he mean by that? What had he seen?

“Who are you?” I asked, pressing for answers.

“A wanderer,” he said simply, clearly unwilling to share much about himself. “You can call me Elliot.”

Elliot. I etched the name into my memory. This mysterious werewolf, who had appeared in my lowest moment, offering me a glimmer of hope in the valley of despair.

Perhaps fate hadn’t abandoned me after all.