Lakota was blanketed in shadow, the kind of darkness that kept secrets safe and curious eyes out.

The dim glow of lanterns gave just enough light to see by, casting a soft sheen on the aged cobblestone streets. Daphne's apothecary was one of the few places still open this late.

A lantern swung gently in the breeze outside her door, casting a faint amber glow across her window. Inside, shelves overflowed with strange vials and herbs, a chaotic reflection of the woman herself. 

I leaned against the rough wood of Daphne's door, feeling the bite of the mountain chill in my bones.

Lakota was a refuge, sure, but only in the way a cage keeps out predators.

The restlessness was creeping in again, that itch just beneath my skin that nothing could scratch. This life — if you could call it that — felt more and more like a circle I couldn't break.

A low chuckle from behind me pulled me back to the present. 

"Still lurking out here, I see."

Daphne's voice was familiar, as was her dry humor. She was the closest thing I had to a companion here, a potion maker with a sharp tongue and a habit of testing her mixtures on anyone willing — or gullible — enough.

When we'd first met, I'd been both. Young, unsteady in my new life, and willing to take risks if it meant understanding more about what I'd become. Daphne had recognized something in me that even I couldn't identify back then, and her experiments... well, they'd filled the gaps.

She tilted her head, studying me in that way she did. 

"You know, you might actually enjoy it more if you spent time with people who weren't here just for business."

"People like you?" I gave her a sidelong glance, a half-smile forming despite myself.

"Or someone who didn't want to throw strange potions down your throat every other week," she said, grinning. "Just a thought."

I almost laughed. But the truth was, Daphne understood me. In her way, she knew that I kept my life simple for a reason, that business was business and anything else was... inconvenient.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you hadn't ended up here?" she asked, her voice softer, curious.

"No," I lied.

In another life, maybe. If things had been different. If I'd been different. But those thoughts only led back to the same question — what exactly am I?

A shifter? Something else? My father's son? Or a complete anomaly, something that even I couldn't define?

The ache of not knowing gnawed at me. Sometimes, I wondered if that was why I found myself in human towns more often these days, talking to strangers who knew nothing about me.

It was easier that way.

They didn't expect answers or loyalty, only contracts and results. They were the one world I'd found where I wasn't an outsider — because I kept everything purely professional.

She sighed, giving me a knowing look before heading back inside. 

I pushed open the door, the familiar scent of her apothecary washing over me: dried herbs, faint smoke, and something metallic that hinted at her more experimental work.

She stood behind the counter, a smirk tugging at her lips as she watched me enter, holding out a small vial filled with a dark, syrupy liquid, with that familiar, knowing grin. 

"Here," she said, her tone light. "You look like you could use a little oblivion."

Daphne was beautiful in the way that fire is beautiful — mesmerizing and dangerous.

Her dark hair framed her sharp face like a halo, accentuating her striking, copper-flecked green eyes that seemed to catch the light with an almost hypnotic glow. Her skin, fair but warm-toned, held a subtle flush as though she were always caught between laughter and some unspoken secret.

A smile often played on her lips, equal parts mischief and promise, and her wit was as quick and biting as the brews she made. 

I took the bottle, downing it in one swallow without asking questions. By now, Daphne and I had an unspoken agreement — she brewed, I tested. She got her experiments, and I got a way out, even if only temporarily.

Her experiments, her daring, had felt like freedom back then. She'd introduced me to mixtures that brought me to the edge of my senses and left me craving more, and she never shied from anything that hinted at risk.

But over time, her insatiable appetite for new concoctions and uncharted experiences became... exhausting. Daphne lived for intensity — every feeling, every taste, every experience needed to push the boundaries.

In our early years, it was exciting, an escape from the rigidity of pack life and the weight of my father's legacy. Our alliance was one of practicality with a side of indulgence; we'd find ourselves tangled in bed as easily as we'd find ourselves experimenting with her brews, drawn together by a shared need to escape the ordinary.

Now, though, as I leaned against the counter and felt the potion's warmth spread through me, the thrill was gone. What once felt like freedom had become routine, and I was left with the stale aftertaste of repetition.

I could see it in her eyes, too, the way she watched me down her latest potion — not with concern, but with curiosity, waiting to see how I'd react, what memories would resurface.

The edges of my vision blurred, and suddenly, I was somewhere else, some other time.

A flash of my father's face, his voice chanting the ritual, the cold light of the moon, and the roar of power flooding through me. I saw my hands, stained, the memory of carnage flashing before me — the echo of screams, the scent of blood, destruction I hadn't been able to stop.

The hallucinatory vision cut deep, the scenes as vivid as the night they'd happened, until they finally began to fade.

When the haze lifted, I found myself sprawled in Daphne's bed, sheets tangled around me, her warm body beside me. I stared at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness settle in.

The routine was becoming suffocating — potions, numbness, and the cold light of morning as the only reward. Daphne was beautiful, captivating, but her appetite for thrill had lost its hold on me. I knew I couldn't keep going like this. Something had to change.