Game of Destiny by Dripping Creativity novel Chapter 4

Game of Destiny

Chapter 4

As I glanced into the rear-view mirror, I barely recognized the reflection staring back at me—worn out and weighed down by sadness.

Yet, as I neared the edge of the pack’s territory, I forced a faint smile to lift my spirits. The wolves stationed at the checkpoint spotted my car immediately and greeted me with a casual wave as I drove past. I was certain they already knew what had transpired—either through sight or whispers. Normally, leaving the pack’s land stirred a deep ache inside me, a physical pull that reminded me I was departing from my family. But this time, as the distance grew between me and the pack, a strange lightness took hold. It was as if a heavy burden was slowly lifting.

I made my way to the nearest town that offered all the essentials I needed.

The first stop was the bank. Now that I was eighteen, I withdrew every penny I had saved—money earned from long hours at the pack’s sawmill, all the birthday gifts tucked away over the years, and, with a heavy heart, the savings account my parents had opened for me at birth. Altogether, it amounted to a solid sum, enough to fund my journey on the road for as long as I intended and still leave a cushion for a fresh start somewhere new.

Next, I headed to the car dealership. The vehicle I drove was a gift from my parents when I got my driver’s license—a nearly new electric car that had barely been used. But it wasn’t suited for the long, cross-country trips I planned.

So, I traded it in for a slightly older Volvo that looked sturdy and reliable. After transferring all my belongings into my new car, I hit the road again. I wasn’t trying to vanish into thin air, nor did I want to broadcast my destination. Truthfully, I didn’t even know where I was headed. My only goal was to put as much distance as possible between myself and Virginia.

Hours of driving wore on, and exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I hadn’t slept since the previous night, and I recognized the danger of continuing to drive while so drained—not just to myself but to others on the road.

Eventually, I found a narrow gravel path that led to a dead end surrounded by thick forest. I pulled over, heated a can of soup, and forced myself to eat despite having no appetite. Then, I curled up inside my car, wrapping myself tightly in a blanket. I imagined my family would have found my note hours ago, and I wondered what they were doing now. Tears slipped down my cheeks until I finally drifted off to sleep.

The following days blended into one another. I drove as far as my body would allow, stopping only for gas, food, and bathroom breaks. Occasionally, I treated myself to a cheap motel room just to shower, but mostly, I slept in my car or beneath the stars. The only thing that shifted was the scenery outside my window—from lush forests to sprawling grasslands, then deserts, until finally, I found myself on the far side of the country.

I parked by the roadside amid a field bursting with wildflowers. Beyond the flowers lay a dense forest, and in the distance, majestic mountains reached toward a clear summer sky. I inhaled deeply, letting some of the tension that had clung to me for nearly two weeks seep away. Somewhere along the journey, I’d settled on a destination: Oregon. The state had only one pack, located near the Nevada border. If I stayed in the northern regions, I was unlikely to encounter any werewolves. I had decided to live as a lone wolf. For someone like me, it was the best option.

Since I didn’t have a wolf to shift into, I could blend into human society without too much difficulty. That would also reduce the chances of crossing paths with other wolves, who generally avoided humans when possible. My immediate priorities were to find a job and a place to live before winter arrived—at least two months away. I told myself I could manage. Keeping busy would help distract me from the persistent ache in my chest. The pain wasn’t as sharp as it had been during the first few days, but it never truly faded. It was a constant reminder of what I had lost and why I now needed to prepare for a life alone.

Being a lone wolf was very different from being a rogue. The werewolf community shunned rogues, usually because of crimes they had committed. A rogue could be killed by anyone at any time without consequence. A lone wolf, however, was a werewolf who chose not to live within a pack. They still followed the laws of werewolf society and respected the hierarchy when encountering other wolves. Killing a lone wolf without cause was just as serious as killing a pack member, though finding someone willing to call out such an act was far more difficult. Lone wolves also had the freedom to rejoin pack life if accepted by a pack, without needing permission from councils or other packs—unlike rogues, who required official approval.

I pulled out my new phone—my old one was still on my parents’ plan, so I had sent it back to them—and loaded a map of Oregon. Scrolling over the landscape, I decided to head northwest and see where the road would lead me.

Two days later, I arrived in a sleepy little town that looked straight out of one of those Hallmark movies my mother adored. The main street was lined with quaint two-story buildings, shops occupying the ground floors. The town sat where the plains met the forest, with towering mountains standing proud in the background. The air was crisp and clean, and the atmosphere felt warm and welcoming. This place could be where I finally healed, I thought.

As if the universe agreed, I spotted a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of the local diner. Stepping inside, the comforting aroma of classic diner fare enveloped me.

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