The carved likeness of Fenrir stares down at me as I slip my hand beneath the furs, first against my lancing abdomen and then lower, to my soaked center.

Though I’ve no doubt my fingertips will come away crimson, I still inspect them before I let hope run wild and free. It’s only when the dragon-fire crackling in our open hearth catches on the gloss of red that I breathe out my trapped inhalation.

Heart hot with emotion, I whisper a hushed thank-you to the carving of the Wolf God that graces every timbered beam in our village, then twist on my cot.

My lips curve as I decide to rouse my mother, not with words, but with a flick of my tongue once my transformation is complete.

How she will startle.

How she will rejoice.

Gently, I peel the heavy hide off my body and get onto all fours.

And then I wait.

And wait.

I reassure myself that it’s not always instant, that the change only swept through my cousin Saga when a howl vibrated the air. It may be the same for me.

As the brisk morning winds itself around my bare arms and swoops beneath my shift, I picture myself streaking through the frostbitten streets of our village toward Saga’s house and pouncing on her cot. I can already hear her irritated mutterings at being awakened before the stars have all gone out.

I crane my neck toward Fenrir’s likeness, encouraging him, through prayer, to awaken my beast. My skin pebbles, and I think the change is upon me, but it’s only goose bumps triggered by the damp chill carving through the thatched roof of our pit house.

I grip my bedding with my scarred fingers, willing white fur to pour from the waxy skin I keep cloaked under gloves almost always. What if my coat doesn’t extend to my paws? What if my hands—­in wolf form—remain hideous?

I shake my head to stave off the vision and implore Fenrir to come for me…to make me his, like he’s made every pointy-­eared person in our pack his.