The chill of the morning air did little to soothe the inferno within Rosalie. She lay still, eyes wide open, the lingering tendrils of a terrifying dream clinging to her. It had been vivid, too vivid – a future of endless flight, of starvation, and ultimately, of a pitiful death as a rogue wolf. A shudder wracked her body, a memory of cold dirt and gnawing hunger that felt sickeningly real.

“Rosalie! Get down here this instant!” Her mother’s voice, saccharine and demanding, sliced through the quiet, a familiar prod that usually sent a jolt of fear through her. Today, it only sharpened the sneer on Rosalie’s lips. They knew she was ill, yet they still called. A ghost of her past self might have scurried down, eager to please. Not anymore.

Slowly, deliberately, Rosalie pushed herself up. The threadbare blanket, her only comfort, slipped to the floor. She wrapped her thin arms around herself, then reached for the worn coat thrown over a nearby chair. Each movement was a silent defiance, a promise to herself: never again would she suffer for their whims. Never again.