RULE #3

The town closest to our home is a little place called Lerwick. It's not a large town, barely housing a few hundred people, but it still had a robust blacksmithing shop. People come from all around to purchase items from Lerwick's blacksmiths, whether it be a sword or a hammer. That is where my father has chosen to work since I was a pup. Since I was old enough to remember, Father has come home smelling like metal and coal, a scent that's as common as my mama's floral perfume used to be. Though I'm now eighteen and can care for our tiny family, Father refuses to stop blacksmithing. He says it grounds him. I don't have the heart to argue over the one thing that still makes him smile despite his declining health.

The townspeople know what we are. They haven't cared, not that I've seen. Mostly because Father is a hard worker and Mama was a sweetheart. They often pat me on the head if I'm wandering around outside waiting for Father. As I grew older, they often talked to me instead. It's one of my most favorite things about Lerwick, the lack of fear when it comes to us. They don't run screaming. They've watched me grow up. I'm just another child.

Just like any day, I go into Lerwick to fetch Father home. He has a tough time shifting into his wolf form these days, so I bring a small cart and he rides home while I pull it. It rests his bones and gives me a reason to come into town, an opportunity I don't often pass up.

The town is just as bustling as it is any other day, but as I walk into town, something feels a little strange. I don't know why my instincts suddenly tell me to get out of Lerwick, but I ignore them. Once I pick up Father, then I'll leave. He can't make it home by himself.

"Vilkas!" someone calls. "Great day, isn't it?"

I turn toward the older woman smiling fondly at me. Mrs. Diana has always shared a bit of her pie with me since I was little. Today, she instead hands me a piece of homemade rye bread smeared with butter. She's a lovely woman and I'm quite fond of her, even if our only exchange is usually small talk and a bite to eat.

"It is, Mrs. Diana," I agree with a nod. "It's a good day for a stroll through the woods."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she says. "These old bones don't move so well anymore."

I tip my chin toward her as I set the wagon down. "I don't mind taking you for a stroll one day if you wish." I point toward my wagon. "I can pull you around."

"Oh, that would be lovely," she muses with a smile. "Thank you for the offer." She looks towards the blacksmith shop. "Your father should be out any moment. He's been working hard today. I saw him working on a nice large sword earlier."

I smile gratefully. "I'll just wait here for him while he finishes up. He likes to feel as if he can still do things on his own."

She smiles sadly and nods. "Don't we all."

I have a seat on the edge of the wagon and watch the blacksmith shop, but before I see my father come out, a commotion rises down the street. Someone shouts and there comes a few screams after. I frown and lean forward, looking for the source of the panicked sounds. Suddenly, a horse pulling a large wagon appears from around the corner, careening out of control. A man holding the reins screams for people to get out of the street as he struggles to get his horse under control. The people along the street scream as they hurry to leap out of the way. Mothers grab children. Men shove women against buildings. A dog barks at the horse whinnying in fear as it passes. I stand, not sure what I can do without hurting the horse. If I shift and stop it, it may die of fright. If I unhook the wagon, it could still kill everyone near it. I stand heavily with my indecision, trying to think of a way to help.

And then my father steps out of the blacksmith shop and into the street.

My eyes widen. "Father! Move!"

But either he can't hear me, or he's not paying attention. He's often lost in his own world these days, meandering around with stumbling steps. He doesn't even look up when he steps into the street as the wagon and horse rushes toward him. I take off running, but though I'm fast, I'm not fast enough to beat the horse, not after my indecision.

I know I've failed him before it even happens.

Father looks up just as the horse bears down on him. By then, it's too late. The dust rises into a cloud as the horse stumbles and the wagon flips over itself. I hear the sounds of the crash, the strange, twisted metal noise echoing in my head. I never hear my father scream, only that of the driver as he goes flying free of the rubble. My father doesn't appear, lost inside the dust and metal and wood.

"Father!" I scream, rushing forward. "Papa!"

There's no answer as I scream for him, as I rush forward to move the pieces. The dust slowly starts to settle as I dig through the rubble, desperate, my chest aching. The horse lays injured beneath a large section of wood, a broken leg, a certain death if someone won't take the time to heal him, but that's someone else's problem. I throw wood out of the way, searching, and only find my father when I reach the bottom.

"No," I gasp. "No, no, no!"

The townspeople surround us, trying to see if they can help. Father gasps for air, blood trickling from the corner of his lips, and I know, this is his end, just as it will likely be the horse's. Tears prick my eyes, but a wolf must always be strong. I've already failed one rule; I won't fail another.

"Papa," I choke out. "Don't."

But he slumps a few seconds later, incapable of heading my plea. His chest no longer rises and falls. He's gone so quickly I never even get a chance to say goodbye. I thought I'd have time for goodbye, that I'd be prepared when it came. I'm not. I'm not prepared at all. Anguish fills me, but I can't show it; I can't cry in front of these people and let them know how devastated I truly am. That's not being strong. That's not what my father taught me. So, instead, that anguish morphs into anger.

I stand, my face twisting as it changes, as my magic forces me wolven. I search for the driver where some of the townspeople help him up. He's unharmed, barely a scratch on him despite being thrown from the wreckage, while my father lies dead. The unfairness of it all slams into me and I can't stop myself from swelling with fury.

"Why?" I roar, drawing every eye my way when they'd been trying to help before. They stop now, their eyes wide, as they take in my shifted form. "Why weren't you in control?"

The townspeople shrink away from my fury. I'm panting heavily with anger, my eyes red-rimmed from unshed tears. I don't think about the sight I must make, but as their gazes turn from sadness to fear, I remember my father's rule about anger, the one I've rarely had to practice.

Because I'm rarely angry.

I force myself to shift back to human by taking three long, deep breaths, knowing they won't see me as Vilkas if I remain wolven. I look around at the people I know, at their faces, at the fear now reflected in their eyes. They've all watched me grow, and now they look at me in fear because of this one instance. Eighteen years of history is wiped away for one mistake, despite them knowing me, despite them knowing who I am. And with father dead, some anger should be forgiven, but it isn't. Not for wolves.

"I'm okay," I rasp, trying to reassure them. "But my father. . ." I look around at them all and find Mrs. Diana in the crowd. "Mrs. Diana?—"

She takes a step back when I address her, fear in her eyes despite never having seen it before. The last eighteen years of pie and small talk disappear like smoke on the wind. She looks at me as if I'm not the child she patted on the head, the teenager she gifted a knife to for hunting, or the man she'd trusted enough to take a wagon ride through the woods.

My chest aches as I look at all the people I once considered my friends. "I see," I murmur, understanding what Father had said now.

It doesn't matter how long you were a good person. Once they see the monster, they never see anything else.

I reach down and scoop up my father's still warm body into my arms and carry him to the small wagon. I gently lay him down and pick up the handles of my wagon. I look back only once, meeting the townspeople's eyes that I used to consider friends. They watch me go. Not a single one steps in to help. Not one offers their condolences. Fear flickers in all their eyes.

I know I won't be back. Lerwick will never be home again.

Only once no one can see, do I let the tears fall.

Only then do I grieve my loss.