Chapter Three – Shadows of Adolescence
(Raven's POV, Age 13)
By thirteen, I had stopped being invisible.
The boys noticed me first. Their eyes lingered too long, heavy and wrong, and the girls noticed them noticing. Jealousy burned hotter than any rumor.
She doesn't even belong here.She thinks she's better than us.
But it wasn't beauty that set me apart—it was something darker.
I was taller, slimmer, sharper than my mother. My hair was black and wild, my eyes caught the light in strange ways. Sometimes, when anger flared, I swore they glowed gold. The other children forgot I was adopted, but they never forgot I was different.
"Raven," Mrs. Jacobs said one morning, her chalk squeaking across the board. "You're staring again."
I blinked, realizing my pencil had carved deep grooves into the paper. Wolves. Always wolves.
"I'm listening," I muttered.
Her frown deepened. "You're bright but distracted. You need to focus."
From the back, a boy snickered. "She's not distracted. She's crazy."
Laughter rippled through the room. My jaw tightened.
"Enough," Mrs. Jacobs snapped. "Back to your work."
But the damage was done. The whispers followed me all day.
At recess, the same boy shoved me. "Think you're better than us?"
I reacted before I thought. My hand shot out, gripping his wrist. I twisted, and he cried out, collapsing to the ground.
Gasps erupted.
"Raven!" the teacher shouted, rushing over. "What happened?"
"He pushed me," I said quickly, my voice shaking.
The boy scrambled up, clutching his wrist. "She's too strong! She's not normal!"
The teacher's eyes narrowed. "Inside. Now."
I walked away, heart pounding, the taste of iron sharp in my mouth.
At home, my parents tried to keep me grounded. My mother's hands trembled when she brushed my hair.
"You're growing so fast," she whispered.
"I'm not like you," I said quietly.
Her brush froze. "Don't say that."
"It's true."
Her eyes filled with tears. "You're my daughter. That's all that matters."
But it wasn't enough.
My father teased me about how slim I was becoming, but his laughter was nervous. "You eat like a wolf," he joked one night at dinner.
I froze, knife halfway through the steak. "What do you mean?"
He chuckled, but it was hollow. "You tear at it. Like you're starving."
My mother shot him a look. "Don't say that."
I lowered my gaze, embarrassed. But inside, I knew he was right. I craved meat—rare, bloody—and the thought made my mouth water.
The horror crept in slowly.
Sometimes I woke with claw marks on my sheets, though my nails were clean. Sometimes I found dirt under my fingernails, though I hadn't left the house. Once, I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue, metallic and sharp, like blood.
The dreams grew worse. Wolves circled me, their eyes burning gold. Their growls shook the ground, vibrating through my chest. I didn't run anymore. I stood still, waiting. One bowed its head, and something inside me bowed back.
Then the voice came, deeper than before, echoing inside my skull: "You are ours."
I woke screaming, my throat raw, my sheets torn. My parents rushed in, pale and trembling.
"What happened?" my mother whispered, clutching my shoulders.
"Nothing," I said quickly.
My father's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't nothing."
I looked away. "I don't want to talk about it."
They exchanged a look, fear flickering between them.
The city was restless. Duskmoor's streets buzzed with vendors shouting, trams screeching, children weaving through the fog. But beneath the noise, I felt it—a presence. Heavy. Watching.
One evening, walking home from school, a group of boys followed me.
"Hey, Raven," one called. "Why don't you smile?"
I ignored him, quickening my pace.
"Too good for us?" another sneered.
They surrounded me, blocking the path.
"Leave me alone," I said, voice low.
One reached out, grabbing my arm. "Make me."
Something inside me snapped. My hand shot out, claws of rage tearing through me. I shoved him, harder than I meant. He flew backward, crashing into a stall. The vendor screamed, fruit scattering across the pavement.
The boys stared, wide-eyed.
"She's crazy!" one shouted, dragging his friend away.
I stood trembling, breath ragged, the taste of iron sharp in my mouth.
That night, my parents confronted me.
"What happened?" my father demanded.
"They followed me," I whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt him."
"You're stronger than you should be," he said, voice trembling. "Too strong."
My mother clutched my hand. "It's not your fault."
"It is," I said. "Something's wrong with me."
Her eyes filled with tears. "You're my daughter. That's all that matters."
But I knew it wasn't enough.
The dreams returned, sharper than ever. Wolves circled me, their eyes burning gold. Their growls shook the ground, vibrating through my chest. I didn't run. I stood still, waiting.
One bowed its head, and something inside me bowed back.
Then the voice came, deeper than before, echoing inside my skull: "You are ours."
I woke screaming, my throat raw, my sheets torn. My parents rushed in, pale and trembling.
"Raven," my father whispered, voice breaking. "You're not like other children."
I stared at him, wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"
He shook his head. "Forget I said that."
But I couldn't forget.
Because I knew, even if they wouldn't tell me— I wasn't like them.