Prophecy – Prologue
In a world where wolves rule from the shadows and ancient magic sleeps beneath the earth, destiny does not knock politely. It hunts.
Separated at birth by violence and betrayal, three siblings grow up unaware of the power written into their blood. As they come of age, the truth begins to surface….of hidden kingdoms, forbidden magic, and a prophecy that refuses to die.
Freya must navigate a world of shifting loyalties and primal bonds. Ghost, quiet and dangerously powerful, walks the edge of something far older than kings. Daemon faces a legacy that demands strength beyond his years.
Around them, alliances form, enemies rise, and the past refuses to stay buried.
This is not a gentle tale of wolves and romance. It is a story of power and restraint, of fierce love and quiet devotion, of ancient spirits and modern battles. Of found family, fractured kingdoms, and the heavy cost of destiny.
As the whispers grow louder, one question remains:
When the gods begin to stir, who will answer?
Perfect for readers who love slow-burn character growth, morally complex heroes, strong female leads, and shifter worlds where magic runs deep and loyalty runs deeper.
This is the opening of Prophecy, the first book in the newly rewritten and fully entwined Whispers of the Wolf series.
This work of fiction contains adult themes and is therefore intended for mature audiences only. There may be triggers. Names, characters and places are purely of the authors imagination and any resemblance to any person (or animal) is purely coincidental. This preview and book are protected by international copyright laws and are All Rights Reserved. Any reproductions need the express permission from the author
The wolves have been waiting.
The fence had gone up years ago in the name of protection. It was considered necessary, they said, to guard against the creatures beyond the wire, the so-called abominations who were deemed a threat to mankind and therefore fit only to be hunted down and wiped out.
The boy in chains sat barefoot in the yard, shirtless and unmoving, his arms folded around his bent knees as though conserving heat. The iron and silver collar pressed into skin faintly marked by old silver burns, pale scars that mapped years of correction and restraint. He was small for sixteen, not yet grown fully into his self. Unlike the others he was not broad but already shaped by training, his body lean and precise rather than heavy. His hair had faded from childhood gold to a near silver white, hacked short by his captors and catching the dying light so that he seemed almost to glow against the grime of the compound. The hunters disliked that about him. Before each hunt they worked mud through the strands until the brightness dulled and he blended properly into the forest they feared.
His eyes were the colour of winter sky before snow, a pale grey that unsettled people when he held their gaze too long.
He would be seventeen in a week. He did not understand the significance of that number, only that the hunters had grown quieter around him as it approached. The collar had been checked twice in one day. New chains had been delivered from the forge. The reinforced room at the back of the compound had been cleared and scrubbed.
He did not remember how he had come to be in the camp. There was no single moment he could trace back to, no clear beginning. The compound had always existed in his mind the way the sky and the ground existed, simply there. He did not know if anyone within those walls had ever belonged to him, or if somewhere beyond the forest there had once been people who spoke his name with familiarity. Sometimes, in the quietest part of the night, he wondered whether there had been a different name once, something softer, something meant for a child. The hunters called him Ghost. He understood that it was given, not inherited, but whatever he had been born as no longer felt reachable, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
His earliest memory was not a face or a voice but the bite of cold silver and iron and the command to follow. That command had shaped everything that came after. He learned quickly that questions earned correction, that resistance earned pain, and that obedience allowed the day to pass without incident. In time the chain became as unremarkable as the dirt beneath his feet. He did not know why he wore it. He only knew that he always had. It was fastened to him before he understood what fastening meant, and so it settled into his life as a simple fact rather than an injustice.
Since then he had been trained to track, to fight, to endure. The lessons came without praise and without pause. When they led him into the forest beneath the watch of rifles, he moved through the undergrowth without sound, reading the ground with an instinct that did not feel taught, as though something in him recognised the patterns before the hunters ever pointed them out.
Across the compound, seated at a rough wooden table with a whetstone and a narrow-bladed knife, Jacob watched him with open interest.
Jacob had been at the camp since he was small enough to sleep curled beside the cookfire without being noticed. He had turned up alone one winter and refused to explain how he had survived long enough to reach them. The hunters kept him because he was useful, and because there was something in him that mirrored their own purpose, only sharper.
He was seventeen now and moved through the compound with the loose confidence of someone who did not quite belong to anyone. He did not like being told what to do and rarely obeyed immediately. Orders were considered, weighed, sometimes ignored entirely if he found them inefficient. That habit had earned him more than one beating in his younger years, though it had never corrected him. It had only taught him how far he could push before someone reached for a weapon.
The men watched him the way they watched a strange dog that had wandered into camp, useful for hunting but liable to turn without warning. He could change in an instant. Laughing one moment, silent the next, the humour gone so completely it unsettled even those accustomed to violence. He did not flare into temper. He simply shifted.
He was not tall, but he was built compact and strong, muscle tight against bone. Dark hair fell into his eyes and was forever in need of cutting. His gaze was deep brown, nearly black in shadow, and too steady for comfort. Steel rested against him as naturally as breath. There were knives in his boots, at his ribs, flat along his forearm, and likely elsewhere besides. The hunters joked about it, though none of them ever tried to prove it wrong.
He was very good at getting answers from captives to whom he did not shout. Nor did he did threaten unnecessarily. He spoke quietly and people tended to talk. If they didn’t talk then he knew how to make them without being taught.
The men around him tolerated him because he was effective but he was too unpredictable to ever be trusted.
He was often found near the edge of the yard where the chained boy stood. The others assumed it was curiosity but Jacob knew it was something else. He was just unsure what. The younger hunters had once taken small liberties with the chained boy, a shove as they passed, a boot nudged against his ribs, a laugh when he stumbled under the weight of the collar. It had been easy sport when he was smaller and less controlled. That changed as Jacob grew.
No rule was spoken aloud. No warning formally issued. It simply became understood that certain lines were not to be crossed. The first time a man raised his hand too casually, Jacob had not shouted or threatened. He had stepped forward and just said sharply, “No”. The man had gone to retaliate but seeing the look in Jacob’s eye had lowered his head and walked off. Jacob nudged the blade he had slipped forward ont his palm from his sleeve back up and smiled at Ghost.
After that, the nudges stopped and the kicks became rarer. If correction was needed, it was done efficiently and without spectacle. The men in the camp were not fools. They knew Jacob did not flare into anger. He would go quiet and you did not hang around when that happened.
Jacob rose now, sliding the knife into its sheath with a soft click, and crossed the yard. The evening light caught in his expression, sharpening the angles of his face and revealing the faint hollows beneath his cheekbones. He was smiling as normal and he stopped just within reach of the chain and leaned forward onto the table near Ghost, resting his forearms on the wood.
“Your birthday is soon,” Jacob said conversationally, “You have no idea what happens then, do you? I see they have not told you yet. Do you know what you are? Fuck we will have such fun!! They’ve been reinforcing the back room. Thomas thinks you’ll break something when it happens. He hopes it’s Gary.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with mock confidentiality. “He hates Gary. Actually,” he added, amusement sharpening his eyes, “they all hate Gary.”
Ghost did not answer. He never did. Jacob was not even sure he could talk.
Jacob studied Ghost, head tilted, dark fringe slipping into his eyes. “You don’t fear me,” he said after a moment, not offended, simply curious. “Most of them do.”
His mouth curved faintly. “They try to hide it. It makes them sloppy.”
He then shrugged once, as though the matter were trivial. “I don’t mind. It gives me something to work with.”
Watching Ghost for a beat longer, the interest in him sharper now, he asked quietly. “Should I care? That they’re afraid?”
Ghost’s expression did not change, but his pale eyes lifted to meet Jacob’s, steady and unflinching.
Jacob held that gaze, then gave a small nod to himself. “No,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s why I like you.”
He straightened and began to circle lazily, boots scraping faintly against packed earth, studying Ghost the way one might study a puzzle that had not yet revealed its edges.
“If you were not chained,” he continued, thoughtful now, circling slowly, “would we fight each other first, just to see who is best?” The idea seemed to interest him. He studied Ghost as though measuring bone and reach. “You look small, but I think you’d be difficult.”
He then stopped in front of him, close enough to test the chain without touching it. “Or maybe we wouldn’t fight at all. Maybe we’d just know.” His mouth curved faintly. “You’d track. I’d end it. Clean. No noise. No wasted effort.”
Considering that he gave a small nod to himself.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “We would be dangerous.”
He lingered there, still thinking, as though adjusting the idea in his mind until it fit.
He went quiet for a moment, studying Ghost with a focus that was different from before, not assessing bone or strength now, but something less visible.
“Hey,” he said at last, softer.
Ghost did not move. He simply watched him, careful and still.
Jacob held his gaze as though a thought had been circling for some time and had finally settled into place. The decision seemed to arrive fully formed.
“You’re my brother.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering the words as if testing their weight. After a moment he gave a small nod, satisfied.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right.” A faint breath of a laugh left him. “I always wanted one.”
There was no question in it. No invitation.
Ghost did not answer, but for a heartbeat his pale gaze held Jacob’s more firmly than before. Something shifted there, subtle and unreadable, but present. The corner of Jacob’s mouth lifted in quiet acknowledgement. Then, as abruptly as he had decided it, he turned on his heel and walked away drawing one of his knives free balancing it loosely by the blade before tossing it lightly into the air and catching it again by the hilt. The movement was easy, careless, the steel flashing in the dim light.
As he crossed the yard, he passed Gary, who was hunched over a crate near the fence, picking at something with unnecessary force.
“Hey, Gaz,” Jacob called pleasantly.
Gary looked up, already wary.
“I have a brother now.”
Gary blinked at him, confusion edging into irritation. “Right. Who? Don’t tell me that little Ghost boy.”
Jacob stopped.
For a moment the grin fell away and something else settled in its place, quiet and unreadable. It lasted no more than a heartbeat, but Gary felt the shift more than he saw it, like the air had thinned without warning. A prickle crept along the back of his neck.
Jacob held his gaze steadily, saying nothing.
Then the smile returned, slow and bright.
“Yes,” he said lightly. “Him.”
He tilted his head just slightly. “Be careful how you say his name.” He said softly.
“I cannot wait until next week,” he added to himself.
He resumed his path without another glance, knife spinning lazily between his fingers now as he began to hum under his breath, some tuneless little melody that did not belong to any song Gary recognised.
Behind him, Gary rubbed at the back of his neck and avoided looking toward the boy in chains.
Ghost had not moved, but he watched Jacob until he disappeared past the kitchens, then turned his attention back to the forest beyond the wire, where the darkness gathered early between the narrow trunks. The compound settled around him as it did every evening, men talking, boots scraping, metal clinking. Nothing had changed. It only felt as though something was drawing nearer.
This edition is part of the fully revised six-book arc, where timelines are entwined and the story unfolds as it was always meant to.
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