Simon had been born between two worlds. His father was a full-blooded wolf, and his mother a sharp-eyed German shepherd. Yet somehow, he belonged to neither.

As a pup, he stayed off to the side, quietly watching from the shadows. He was dog-like for the wolves and too wolf-like for the dogs. Even his parents, distant and unreliable, offered little more than occasional glances and bare-minimum care. So Simon learned quickly that no one was coming to save him.

He spent his days training himself the only way he knew how—running until his legs burned, stalking shadows to sharpen his steps, pouncing at anything that twitched. He grew strong, fast, and self-reliant, but a young wolfdog can only bring down so much prey alone. Hunger became an old, familiar companion.

By the time he was nearly grown, he slipped quietly from the pack and into the forest, choosing loneliness on his own terms rather than loneliness among others. Life as a roaming wolfdog was a harsh one. He kept to the outskirts of territories, but every so often he wandered too far in and paid the price—snarling wolves lunging from the brush, teeth at his shoulders, his ribs, chasing him off with the kind of fury reserved for things that don't quite belong anywhere.

Still, he made it. Scarred, a little scrawny, but alive.

Now, padding through the dusky forest as a dispersal with the air cool in his lungs, Simon lowered his head and drew in a slow breath.