Fifteen years ago, my fate was sealed.
Nana's voice echoed in my memory, soft but unwavering: "Never cross the field gate, Narito. Not today, not ever." As a child, I obeyed her without hesitation. Her words were law, absolute and unchallengeable. But as the years passed, a restlessness began to stir inside me—a gnawing curiosity that refused to be quelled. Ten years had slipped by since Nana took me in, and in that time, I had devoured every book she owned. I read about faraway lands, kingdoms I would never see, and histories written by people who lived lives so different from mine it was almost unimaginable.
The more I learned, the more I longed to step beyond the borders of our small home. The fenced field, the towering gate, the familiar paths of our forest—all of it suddenly felt like chains holding me back. I wanted to know who I truly was.
Nana often remarked on how different I was. "Your mind works faster than any boy I've ever met," she would say, brushing my hair back as I struggled with another lesson. I had no other children to compare myself to, yet I could feel it too. I was stronger, faster, and sharper than I should have been, even for my age. Even the simplest games I played in the yard seemed too easy, the simplest tasks too small for my abilities. And somewhere deep inside, I wondered if that difference was something to celebrate—or a warning I was too young to understand.
Then, one fateful day, curiosity won.
Nana had gone to the village for business, as she often did, leaving me alone in our home. Normally, I would have spent the hours reading, pouring over stories of distant lands, or practicing what I had learned about the forest and its creatures. But that morning, my focus was elsewhere. From the window, I spotted a group of children playing across the field gate. Their laughter rang out, sharp and bright against the quiet morning air, carrying with it a sense of joy I had only ever glimpsed in Nana's eyes.
I had never felt such longing. Not for survival. Not for warmth. But for belonging.
My legs moved before my mind could catch up. I hesitated only briefly at the gate, feeling its iron bars like the boundary between two worlds, before I ran. Excitement bubbled in my chest, reckless and unrestrained, as I dashed toward them. For a moment, the wind on my face and the sun in my eyes made me feel alive in a way I had never known.
And then I saw their faces.
The laughter stopped abruptly. Confusion rippled across their features, quickly replaced by fear. Their eyes widened, their smiles vanished, and they recoiled as though I were some nightmare made flesh. I froze, panic clawing at my chest, trying to understand why I was suddenly a stranger in what should have been a shared world.
Then the older boys stepped forward, their faces hardening. One of them sneered, his posture aggressive, stepping too close. My heart pounded in my ears.
The scent of blood hit me then—something raw and foreign, like a switch had flipped inside me. I don't remember what happened next, not fully. I remember reaching out, wanting to understand, wanting to connect. And then the next moment, I was standing over them, my chest heaving, my hands trembling with something I could not yet name. Blood streaked across my face, drying in angry red lines along my skin, staining my chin. Five boys had stood against me, yet in those moments, the predator had shifted. The wolf inside me had emerged, unbidden and terrifying.
When Nana returned, the world felt smaller. She found me standing there, face streaked with dried blood, hands trembling, eyes wet with tears. I told her everything, every detail I could remember, my voice shaking under the weight of fear and guilt. And though the truth spilled from my lips, she did not look at me with the fear I expected. Instead, her gaze carried sorrow, deep and aching, as though she understood the impossible burden I had been born with.
That day marked the beginning of my struggles—not just the fear of others, but the awareness that the world had already decided who I was before I had a chance to show them anything else.
The villagers' hatred for me grew quietly at first, whispered in shadows, lingering in side glances. Whenever misfortune struck, they blamed me. Every failed harvest, every lost animal, every accident became my fault. The murmurs of "the cursed one" grew louder each year, festering like a wound that would not heal.
And then came the winter that changed everything.
It was a perfect day for hunting—the kind where the frost glistened on the branches and the snow muffled the sound of movement in the forest. I had left early, tracking prey deep into the mountains, as I often did, leaving Nana alone in the quiet of our home. For hours, I roamed, focused, alive in the wilderness where no one could judge me. But when I returned, everything had shifted.
The village felt heavier somehow, the air thick with grief and tension. Silence greeted me as I stepped inside the boundaries of our community, my arms carrying the small bounty I had gathered. And then, the whispers began, sharp and pointed.
"It was him."
"The cursed one."
"He killed the chief's daughter."
I froze, each word a dagger striking deep. The weight of accusation pressed down, even though I knew in my bones I had done nothing. I had been miles away, following the tracks of deer and rabbit, innocent of the tragedy they claimed I caused. Yet, in their eyes, innocence was irrelevant. My guilt had already been written.
From that day onward, I realized the truth I could not escape: no matter what I did, no matter how careful or good I tried to be, I would always be the marked wolf. The scar on my flesh, left by a beast that had once sought to kill me, had become a symbol of fear, a brand stamped onto my very existence. The villagers' suspicion, hatred, and fear would never fade—they had already decided what I represented, and their decision outweighed any proof of my innocence.
Even Nana's soothing words could not erase it. She held me, whispered that it was not my fault, but even her warmth could not shield me from the eyes of a world determined to see me as a monster. That day, the realization burned in me like frostbite—fate had marked me, not for what I could do, but for what I already was: different, dangerous, and, in the eyes of the world, cursed.
From that moment, the forest became my refuge once again. Among the trees, under the sun and snow, I felt the wolf inside me stir, a reminder that life was not just about survival. It was about understanding the power and danger that came with being who I was. But the outside world—the village, the people, the very society that had once felt like home—would never see me as anything but the predator hidden beneath human skin.
And so, fifteen years ago, my fate was sealed. I became the boy born in darkness, raised by love, yet forever marked by the claws of a beast—a boy destined to walk between two worlds, neither of which would ever accept him fully. The wolf was not just a scar; it was a reminder of the choices I would have to make, the battles I would have to fight, and the endless struggle between who I wanted to be and who the world demanded I was.