The wind, sharp and unforgiving, bit at Zephyr's pale fur. He shivered, not just from the cold, but from the icy glares of his own pack. They called him "Ghost," a name spat from their black muzzles with contempt. His fur, the stark white of a winter's moon, was a blatant anomaly amidst their inky coats. He was different, and in the world of the Shadowfang pack, different was dangerous, different was wrong.

  Zephyr hadn't asked to be born this way. He had tried to be a good member of the pack, a silent shadow in their hunts, a loyal wolf at their gatherings. But his difference was a constant, a glaring beacon of otherness. One night, under a sky heavy with unshed snow, the alpha, a gigantic wolf with eyes like chips of obsidian, declared Zephyr an outcast. "You are a blight upon our pack," he growled, "Your pale fur brings ill fortune. Leave, and never return."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The expulsion was a brutal shove into the unknown. Zephyr, young and heartbroken, fled into the howling wilderness. He traveled for days, his heart aching with a loneliness that was almost a physical pain. He sought shelter in a hollow log, the only warmth the memory of his mother’s gentle nuzzles. Then, he heard a startled squeak.