The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 172

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 172**

In the dim light of the camp, Aaron felt a wave of humiliation wash over him, a heat that surged through his very being. The task of scurrying about, seeking out anyone who might possess spare “female supplies,” felt like a punishment too great to bear. The very thought of being caught grappling for the same packet as a she-wolf sent a jolt of shame coursing through his pelt. All he could think about was escaping this mortifying situation; his pride was on the line, and he had no patience left to spare for anyone else’s needs.

“Just endure it. This too shall pass,” he muttered under his breath, a dismissive flick of his arm sending Zenia aside with a sharpness that spoke of youthful arrogance. He was a young wolf, after all, and in that moment, he felt invincible, even as the shame lingered.

The packet of low-quality pads was finally handed over to Celestine, and Zenia watched as the she-wolf wrinkled her delicate nose in clear disdain, muttering something that was likely unflattering. In an instant, Aaron’s demeanor shifted; he lowered his head, the weight of guilt pressing down on him. He stammered out apologies, his eyes darting toward the mountain path where help might be found, desperate to rectify the situation.

Only then did Celestine’s expression soften, albeit briefly. She took the packet and departed with a grace that was almost regal, her movements precise and deliberate, as if she were gliding rather than walking.

But, as fate would have it, the packet never made its way back to Zenia. Celestine discarded it the moment she was finished, tossing it aside like it was nothing more than refuse.

Zenia remained by the cliff’s edge, her body stiff and unmoving, a solitary figure in a world that felt increasingly hostile. Here, she had no packmates, no friends, no one who would lend a hand or even a sympathetic glance.

The dampness beneath her spread, cold and humiliating, a reminder of her isolation. A group of male wolves sauntered toward the only path she could take to escape, their laughter rough and boisterous, their scents thick with smoke and the aroma of roasted meat.

At barely sixteen, she felt like a shadow—quiet, unremarkable, always keeping her gaze downcast. But even the most overlooked she-wolf harbored a fragile sense of pride, a flicker of dignity that remained unbroken.

As twilight deepened, the mountain wind turned sharper, cutting through her thin clothing like a knife. Her eyes stung from the chill, and the ache in her abdomen blurred into a numbing discomfort that echoed her emotional turmoil.

Peering into the dark ravine below, a hollow thought flickered through Zenia’s mind:

Was poverty really capable of stripping a wolf of even the tiniest shred of dignity?

It had been merely a packet of supplies—worthless to everyone else but invaluable to her.

Around her, the teenage wolves reveled under the stars, their laughter bright and carefree against the night sky. The air was rich with the scent of charred meat and pine resin, a feast for the senses. To them, this was a beautiful evening filled with joy and camaraderie.

For Zenia, however, it was nothing more than a long, cold reminder of her place in the world—a mud-soaked stray hiding in the shadows, wishing fervently for their celebration to end quickly.

Just as she felt the icy grip of despair threaten to freeze her in place, something warm draped over her shoulders.

A jacket.

Zenia turned, startled, to see Aysel Vale standing there—the infamous young she-wolf from the Moonvale Pack, a name that sent whispers rippling through the camp.

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