Ashes Of a Name.
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The forest was colder than usual. Not the kind of cold that kissed your skin, but the kind that clawed into your bones and reminded you that you didn't belong. I stumbled through it, barefoot, bleeding from the soles, the tattered cloak wrapped around me offering little protection from the wind or the humiliation. My breaths came in quick, shuddering bursts, clouds of pain rising with every exhale.
My name no longer held weight.
My title was ash.
My blood, rejected.
I hadn't cried since they threw me out. But now, with nothing but darkness around me and the bitter silence of exile curling around my throat, something inside me wanted to scream. I didn't. I wouldn't. That's what they expected.
Leaves cracked behind me.
I turned sharply, adrenaline flooding what little strength remained in my limbs. My vision blurred at the edges, but I could still make out the movement — two figures, large, fast, approaching. Wolves. Rogues maybe. Or worse, assassins sent to erase the pack's mistake.
They didn't announce themselves.
They didn't hesitate.
The first one lunged, grabbing my arm so hard I thought the bone would crack. I fought back — a clawing, desperate fight, more animal than warrior. My nails caught skin. My foot struck a shin. But I was weak. Starved. My wolf still hadn't awakened.
"Feisty," one of them hissed. "No wonder they threw you out."
The second one slammed me against a tree. Bark bit into my spine as I struggled. My cloak slid down, revealing the faded mark on my shoulder — the symbol of the Nightbane line… now nothing more than a forgotten stain.
"Should we kill her?" the other asked.
"Not yet," the first one replied, licking blood from his lip. "Let's see what she's worth."
I spat in his face.
Big mistake.
The punch that followed split my lip wide open. My head slammed against the tree, and for a moment, the world flickered black. I sank to my knees, tasting copper. My limbs trembled.
But I didn't cry.
Even when the first rogue bent down and gripped my chin, forcing me to look up into his scarred face, I didn't cry.
"You've got fire, I'll give you that," he muttered. "But fire dies in the cold."
I didn't answer. I refused to give him the satisfaction.
He stood and turned to the other. "Take her to the camp."
"She'll slow us down."
"She'll survive… or she won't. Either way, the boss will want to see her."
I was dragged through the forest like prey — feet scraping against roots, branches cutting my skin. My hands were bound behind me with rope that burned my wrists. Blood dried on my face. My head throbbed. But still… I watched. Every step, every tree, every direction. If I got the chance, I'd run.
The rogue camp wasn't a place. It was a threat.
Built into a hidden ravine, surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by wolves who didn't follow rules or honor. The rogues lived by one law — survival. You earn your place or die in the dirt.
They threw me at the edge of the fire pit like garbage. Dozens of eyes turned to me. Some curious. Others hungry. I felt the weight of every stare, every unspoken judgment. One woman laughed. Another whispered, "She's tiny. She won't last a night."
I forced myself to sit upright.
A shadow stepped forward from the center tent. Tall, broad, and calm — too calm. His presence silenced the others. His eyes were cold silver. The alpha of the rogues.
He looked down at me. Said nothing for a long moment. Then, "Name?"
I hesitated.
That name wasn't mine anymore. Not really. But it was the only one I had.
"…Aria."
He crouched, grabbing my jaw roughly. "Aria of where?"
My eyes burned. "Nightbane."
A ripple passed through the crowd. Someone cursed. Someone else spat near my feet. The name carried weight, even here. They hated the Nightbane pack. But this alpha? He grinned.
"Ah," he said, releasing my face. "The forsaken princess."
I didn't react. I was tired of being reminded.
The alpha stood. "Test her."
"What?" a wolf behind him asked. "She's barely standing."
He shrugged. "Then she'll fall. Either way, we'll know what we're dealing with."
Two wolves dragged me toward the center of the ring. Another rogue — this one tall, lean, cocky — cracked his neck as he stepped in. He looked like he enjoyed breaking things.
"Ready to bleed, princess?" he sneered.
I didn't answer. My fists curled.
He struck first — a hard, fast punch to the gut that knocked the air from my lungs. I collapsed to my knees but forced myself up. Pain screamed through my ribs. I swung wildly, catching him on the jaw. It wasn't enough.
He laughed.
The second hit was worse. Then the third.
Blood filled my mouth. I couldn't see from one eye. My knees buckled, but I stayed up. I didn't fall. Not completely. Not yet.
The crowd started murmuring.
"She should be unconscious by now."
"She's still standing."
The alpha watched, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Another punch. My lip split again. My shoulder dislocated with a sickening pop. I choked on blood and spit, but I didn't cry.
The rogue raised his hand for the final blow.
"Enough," the alpha said.
Silence.
I dropped to the ground, gasping, shivering.
"She passed," he said.
"Passed what?" someone asked.
He crouched beside me again, staring into my barely open eyes.
"She didn't beg. She didn't break. She didn't run."
His voice dropped.
"Which means she can be built."
I laid there in the dirt, bloodied and broken, but alive.
That alone felt like rebellion.
My jaw ached. My shoulder throbbed with a pulse of its own. My stomach burned with bruises too deep to see, but I had survived the test — whatever savage ritual this rogue pack considered "proof of worth."
The alpha gave no praise. Only a nod.
"Someone get her cleaned up," he said. "And fed. She belongs to us now."
Belongs.
The word stuck in my throat like bile, but I was in no position to fight it. Not now.
Rough hands grabbed me again. This time, gentler — or maybe I was just too numb to feel the difference. They led me through the camp, past ragged tents, cages, weapons half-buried in snow, and eyes that followed me with curiosity or contempt. No one offered a smile. No one offered help.
Rogues didn't do kindness.
They threw me into a small hut barely held together by canvas and bone. It smelled like rust, smoke, and survival. A female rogue — broad shoulders, dark braids, golden eyes that looked like they'd seen too much — handed me a cloth and a jug of water.
"You wash," she said. "Then eat. Then sleep."
I nodded, unable to speak.
She lingered a second longer, staring.
"You're the Alpha's disgrace."
I looked up slowly.
She didn't flinch. "That's not an insult. It's just what they call you here."
I didn't reply. I didn't need to.
She left me alone.
I peeled off my cloak and stared at the girl in the broken mirror propped in the corner. My face was a war zone — lip split, cheek swelling, blood dried into my hairline. My eyes, though… they still burned. Faint. But there.
The water stung as I wiped the blood away. I didn't cry.
I ate the stale bread they gave me with shaking hands and curled onto the cold mat laid out in the corner. No blankets. No light. Just the sound of the wind scratching against the tent like claws.
And in that silence, I thought of Seraphina's smile.
Of my mother's blank face.
Of my father's back turned.
I pressed a hand to my chest, to the dull silence where my wolf should've howled. She was still sleeping inside me — or maybe hiding. But something else stirred beneath my ribs that night. A whisper.
Not forgiveness.
Not grief.
Purpose.
The next morning, I was woken by a boot to the ribs.
"Get up," the same woman from before barked. "You've got work."
I bit back a groan and stood. Every movement hurt.
They didn't give me healing potions or care. Just tasks.
I scrubbed blood from blades, hauled crates twice my weight, cleaned out the training pits, patched up tents. By noon, my hands were blistered. By dusk, I couldn't feel my legs. But I didn't collapse.
They watched. All of them. Waiting for me to break.
I didn't.
On the third day, one of the male rogues cornered me near the water barrels. His breath stank of ale and arrogance.
"Pretty thing like you doesn't belong here," he purred, brushing hair from my face.
I slapped his hand away.
He laughed and grabbed my wrist.
"I like a little fire."
I headbutted him so hard his nose cracked.
He bled. I bled more.
He tried to hit me, but before he could, the alpha appeared.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Touch her again, and I'll tear off your hands."
The rogue froze.
"But she—"
"Did what you were too slow to deserve."
The rogue backed off. The alpha turned to me.
"You fight when you shouldn't. You stand when you should fall."
"Are you going to punish me?" I asked, spitting blood again.
"No," he said, smirking slightly. "I'm going to train you."
My brows furrowed.
"Train me for what?"
He didn't answer.
But that night, I was moved to a different tent — still small, still cold, but closer to the inner ring of the camp. I had a cot now. A new cloak. A blade.
And my name was whispered differently when people passed.
Not the cursed one.
Not the Alpha's shame.
But the girl who wouldn't fall.
Training began the next dawn.
The alpha didn't go easy on me. He wasn't gentle, not even once. He taught with fists, with blades, with pain. He forced me to run until my lungs bled. Forced me to hold a sword with broken fingers. Forced me to fight bigger wolves, faster wolves — wolves that had killed before and would do it again.
I failed a lot.
But I always got back up.
And with every bruise, every scar, I stopped being Aria the discarded.
I was becoming something else.
Something the Nightbane pack would never expect.
Something they couldn't control.
And one day — not now, not soon, but one day — I'd return.
Not to beg.
Not to reclaim a birthright they spat on.
But to show them what they created.
And when I did, they would learn what the moon always knew.
You can't bury a storm.
You can only pray it never returns.
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