I sat in the little office they led me to after the audition — all uneven shelves and mismatched furniture, the air thick with the scent of coffee and dust and something old, like worn pages and spent dreams.
My fingers wouldn't stop fidgeting in my lap. I kept them curled tight, hoping they wouldn't tremble.
I didn't know what I expected them to say.
"You have a nice voice"?
"Come back next year"?
"Thanks, but no thanks"?
What I didn't expect... was the three of them to walk in together.
The youngest, a sharp-featured guy in a charcoal shirt, sat directly across from me. He glanced at the older woman beside him — the one who hadn't blinked once during my audition — and then smiled, soft but certain.
"Dwyn, right?" he said.
I nodded, the word catching behind my teeth.
"That... was remarkable."
I blinked. "The song?"
"The way you sang it," the woman said gently. "We hear raw talent all the time, but rarely does it pull like that."
Another judge — the man with greying hair and tired eyes — leaned back in his chair and added, "You didn't just sing, Dwyn. You made the room feel like it had a heartbeat."
My face burned. "I wasn't trying to do anything special. It just... came out."
"And that's why we want to offer you something," said the youngest one, reaching into a folder.
My breath froze.
"We're working on a collaboration," he said. "An acoustic duet with one of our artists — up-and-coming, but pretty serious traction. She's great, but we've been looking for the right contrast. Someone whose voice cuts, but feels ancient. Raw."
He slid a page across the table — sheet music, some notes scrawled in pencil. "One listen to you, and we knew."
I stared at it. "You want me to... sing? With someone else?"
The woman nodded. "It's low-pressure. Studio session in a few days. Just a rough cut to see how your voices blend. You'd be a featured artist. No long-term contracts — unless you want that later."
My hands curled tighter. "Why me?"
"Because you made everyone in that room forget what they were doing," the grey-haired man said simply. "And that's not something you teach."
They let me go with the music, the date, and a name I didn't recognize: Rhea Solane. Apparently, she was a rising indie artist in the local scene — all smoky vocals and sad guitar. The opposite of me.
Maybe that's why it worked.
Maybe that's why they wanted me.
I walked out into the fading light with the music pressed to my chest.
It felt like holding something living — fragile, breathing, new.
I didn't know what would come next.
But for the first time since I left the pack...
Since Kael rejected me...
Since everything burned and fell apart...
I didn't feel like a leftover.
I felt like a start.
The paper crinkled slightly with every step I took.
I kept it clutched to my chest like it might fly away if I let go, the edges softening under my fingers. The melody line. Rhea Solane's name. The date for the studio session. It was all real. I checked the paper at least three times on the walk just to make sure I hadn't imagined it.
The city glowed around me — soft golden lamplight spilling over sidewalks, the distant hum of voices and music drifting out of open doors. I didn't know how long it would take before I stopped flinching every time I passed someone, half-expecting to be recognized, challenged, sniffed out.
But no one looked twice.
To them, I was just another girl walking home at dusk.
They didn't see the wolf under my skin.
And for once, I didn't mind being invisible.
I turned onto the quieter street that led to Margot's cottage. The wind had picked up, bringing the scent of the ocean with it — briny, clean, and just a little cold. Somewhere in the distance, someone strummed a guitar. The notes didn't mean anything.
Not like the ones in my hands.
This duet... it wasn't just a song. It was a doorway. A maybe. A breath of something that didn't belong to the pack or the past or Kael's choices.
It was mine.
And that scared me more than I wanted to admit.
I slowed as the cottage came into view, the little porch light already glowing like it had been waiting for me.
Would Margot be proud? Would she be angry?
Would she say I was chasing dreams too quickly... or worse, chasing them alone?
I wasn't sure I could handle either reaction.
Part of me wanted to rush inside and shove the music under my mattress, hide it like contraband. But another part — the part that had stood in that audition room and let something ancient spill out of my throat — wanted someone to see me.
To say this mattered.
To say I mattered.
The porch steps creaked beneath me.
I hesitated at the door, the cool night pressing at my back.
I could hear the clink of dishes inside. The kettle boiling. Margot humming — soft, absentminded, something old and wordless.
Her voice cut off as I stepped inside.
"Hey, little wolf," she called from the kitchen. "You're late."
I froze in the doorway, the sheet music still clutched in my hand.
Her eyes flicked to it immediately — then to my face.
She didn't say anything else.
Just waited.
"I got in."
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, breathless and burning. "Margot, they picked me. Not just for a showcase—an actual duet. With someone named Rhea Solane. They want me to come to the studio and sing with her. Like... like for real."
I was still standing in the doorway, coat half off, sheet music clutched to my chest like it might vanish if I let go.
Margot paused mid-reach for the kettle, one hand hovering over the handle, her brow arched.
Then her face softened. "Well," she said, voice warm, "look at you."
I blinked. "You're not... mad?"
She laughed — a full, real sound that filled the kitchen like steam. "Why would I be mad, girl? You look like the moon just kissed your forehead."
I finally let out the breath I'd been holding and crossed to the table, dropping the music between us.
"They said my voice did something to the room," I said, still a little dazed. "That it made the air feel heavy."
"It does," Margot said simply, pouring tea into two chipped mugs. "You sing like there's thunder in your blood."
I sat down. My hands still buzzed with something I didn't have a name for.
Joy?
Hope?
Terror?
Maybe all three.
Margot slid a mug toward me and leaned her elbows on the table. Her eyes were kind, but sharp in the way only people who've been broken before can be.
"I'm happy for you, Dwyn," she said. "Truly."
"But?"
"But," she echoed, "music has teeth. And not all who smile at your voice will have good intentions."
I looked down at the mug, my reflection warped in the swirl of honeyed tea. "You think this is dangerous?"
"I think you're powerful," she said. "And the world doesn't always treat powerful women kindly. Especially when they don't know their full strength yet."
The words made something shift in my chest.
She didn't say "careful" like a warning.
She said it like a blessing.
"I'm not backing out," I said quietly.
"I wouldn't want you to."
"But I might... keep it quiet. Just for now. No letters home. No announcements."
Margot nodded. "Good. Let your roots settle before you bloom."
I smiled faintly. "That sounds like something from one of your weird gardening books."
"Probably is," she shrugged. "But it's still true."
We sipped our tea in silence after that.
But beneath the quiet, a spark had caught.
And for the first time in a long while...
I wanted to burn.