I stretch my arms overhead, bones cracking in quiet rebellion against another sleepless night. The air is cold, laced with the dampness of dew and old pain. I glance at the worn-out clock beside the broken mirror — 5:01 AM. Just like always. I sit up slowly on the thin mat laid out on the cement floor, careful not to make a sound. They don't like it when I wake before them.

I close my eyes and reach inward, willing her to respond. "Kaari...?" My voice is soft in my head, tentative. The name of my wolf — once a constant companion — feels foreign now. I used to hear her laughter in the wind, feel her warmth curl around my soul. But for months now, she's been silent. Distant. Caged.

I know she's still there. I can sense the heartbeat within mine, the ache of her sadness mirroring my own. But I haven't heard her since the last time Alpha Pranav dragged me across the training grounds for speaking out of turn. I still have the scars, both on my skin and in places no one sees.

I shift, wincing at the bruise on my hip. Another souvenir from yesterday's punishment. They call it discipline. I call it survival.

"One day," I whisper to the shadows, "we'll run."

But even I don't believe it anymore.