Chapter 2

VALERIA'S POV The last ten years of my life in the Shadow Fang Pack have been nothing short of torment, each day a battle to survive in a world that viewed me as less than nothing. From the moment I was dragged from my burning homeland and thrown into chains, my identity was stripped away, replaced by a single, unchanging label: slave. AGE 8: THE BEGINNING It started with small tasks—cleaning floors, fetching water, and running errands for the warriors. At first, I thought if I worked hard enough, they might see me as more than just a prisoner. I thought wrong. The warriors saw my efforts as nothing more than an opportunity to exploit my labor further. By my ninth birthday, I had learned the rules of survival: speak only when spoken to, keep your head down, and never, ever cry. Tears only brought laughter, followed by harsher punishments. AGE 10: THE LESSON OF OBEDIENCE I remember scrubbing the stone courtyard on my hands and knees, the sharp rocks biting into my skin. Beta Kane—a man who seemed to derive joy from cruelty—walked by, kicking over the bucket of soapy water. “Start over,” he ordered coldly. When I hesitated, his hand struck my face, leaving a bruise that lingered for days. "Slaves don't get to question orders," he spat. That lesson was one I would never forget. AGE 12: THE FIRST HUMILIATION It was an evening like any other, and I had been tasked with polishing the warriors’ boots for a feast. As I worked, I felt something strange, a warm trickle running down my thigh. Confused and embarrassed, I tried to ignore it, but Beta Kane noticed immediately. “What’s this?” he snarled, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me to my feet. When he saw the blood staining my clothes, his face twisted with disgust. “Five lashes for making this mess, you disgusting wh*re,” he declared. I was dragged to the punishment post before I could even understand what I had done wrong. My back still bore scars from previous punishments, and the new lashes reopened wounds that never seemed to heal. AGE 13: THE FIRST BETRAYAL Among the other slaves, I found a rare semblance of companionship in Freya, a girl younger than me by a year. She had a spark of defiance in her that I admired, though it often got her into trouble. One night, I was yanked from my bed and dragged before the Alpha. Freya stood there too, her face pale and her shoulder bleeding. “One week of starvation and seven lashes each night for stealing from the kitchen,” the Alpha’s voice boomed. I stared at Freya, confused and hurt. She couldn’t meet my eyes. It wasn’t until later that I learned she had blamed me to save herself. That night, as the whip tore into my back, I promised myself I would never trust anyone again. AGE 15: THE PUNISHMENT OF KINDNESS The Gamma’s wife was heavily pregnant, and I was assigned to care for her. I scrubbed her back during baths, fetched her meals, and brought her tonics my mother had once taken during her own pregnancy. I worked tirelessly, hoping that perhaps kindness would be returned in some small measure. But fate had other plans. When her child was stillborn, the blame fell squarely on me. “It was that slave! She poisoned me!” she wailed, her grief twisting into hatred. Despite the healers’ assurances that the death was caused by complications, the pack didn’t care. From then on, I became their outlet for every frustration, every anger. The blows came harder, the punishments harsher. AGE 17: THE DARKEST NIGHT By now, the abuse was routine. The warriors took pleasure in tormenting me, whether through cruel words or physical harm. One night, after a long day of cleaning the training grounds, they cornered me. Jax, their leader, sneered as he grabbed my arm. “Let’s see how much this one can take,” he said, and the others laughed. They pushed me, shoved me into the mud, threw rocks that left bruises. When I stumbled, Jax kicked me hard in the ribs, and I gasped, unable to breathe. Just when I thought it would never end, a voice cut through the chaos. “Enough.” Alpha Magnar, the future leader of the pack, stood at the edge of the training grounds. This is the first time I've seen him so close.His piercing gaze silenced the warriors instantly. He didn’t look at me but addressed them with icy authority. “If you have time to waste, perhaps I should find you something more useful to do.” His tone left no room for argument. The warriors scattered, leaving me trembling and broken on the ground. Magnar didn’t offer a hand to help me up, nor did he speak to me. But his intervention, however small, planted a seed of something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. Ten years of pain and degradation have shaped me, but they have not broken me. I carry the scars on my body and the weight in my soul, but somewhere deep inside, a spark remains. One day, I will rise above this. One day, I will be free.