The chamber had given me hope.
But hope wasn't enough.
As construction crews carved deeper into the mountain, as Elara scribbled formulas and Marcus tightened security, I felt the weight of something gnawing at me.
The sanctuary would be a home. But what good was a home if its inhabitants didn't trust the one who built it?
The wolf's eyes haunted me. That night in the forest, weeks before, when I had stood in the dark and felt the flicker of connection — it was still there, sharp and alive. A promise, unfinished.
If I was going to do this, I couldn't just build walls and habitats. I had to speak to them. Earn their trust in ways no human ever had.
And there was only one way.
The research wasn't hard to find. My father had collected everything — scientific, experimental, theoretical, even fringe studies buried in locked archives. Genetic notes on resonance frequencies. Abandoned projects exploring vocal cord alteration. Biological speculation on how animals communicate in ranges humans couldn't reach.
Most of it was dismissed as impractical, unethical, or insane. But then, so was the sanctuary.
I reached out to a lab my father had once funded, hidden behind shell companies, its scientists accustomed to secrecy. Money still opened doors. Enough of it, and no one asked why.
The lead surgeon was clinical when I explained. "You're requesting modification to your laryngeal tissue. Vocal cord grafting, frequency range expansion, resonance adjustment."
"Yes."
He frowned. "You understand the risks? Permanent damage. Chronic pain. Possible muteness. Death, in extreme cases."
"I understand."
He studied me for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Very well. Sign here."
The pen felt heavy in my hand, but when I scrawled my name across the paper, I felt lighter.
This was the cost.
The procedure blurred into a haze of lights and antiseptic. Cold steel against my skin. The hum of machines. The sharp sting of anesthesia flooding my veins.
Then darkness.
When I woke, my throat burned like fire. Every breath was a razor, every swallow molten glass. Tubes snaked down my neck, monitors beeped steadily, voices murmured in sterile tones.
I tried to speak, but nothing came. Just a rasp, a croak that clawed at my lungs.
The doctor leaned over me, his voice clinical. "Don't force it. Your vocal cords are healing. Weeks of pain. Months of adaptation. But if it works… you'll never sound the same again."
Good, I thought, closing my eyes against the pain. I didn't want to sound the same.
I didn't want to sound like him.
Recovery was agony.
I spent days in silence, every attempt to speak ending in gasps of pain. Elara visited once, her sharp eyes narrowing when she saw the bandages at my throat.
"What did you do?" she demanded.
I couldn't answer.
Her glare softened, though only slightly. She shook her head. "You're insane." She picked up one of my sketches from the bedside table — the one of the wolf, its head tilted, mid-howl. She studied it for a long moment before setting it back down. "Don't die before you finish this," she muttered, and walked out.
Marcus visited, too, less subtle in his disapproval. "Your father left you billions, and you're spending it cutting your own throat. Brilliant." He lit a cigarette, ignoring the hospital's protests. His gaze softened, though, as he exhaled smoke. "But you're serious. Dead serious. That scares me more than anything."
I managed the faintest rasp. "Good."
Weeks later, I could speak again — though speak was no longer the right word. My voice was raw, strange, layered. Human, but not only human.
One night, when the pain dulled enough, I slipped from the facility and returned to the forest above the excavation site.
The moon hung low, silvering the pines. The wind whispered through the branches.
I stood beneath the trees, heart hammering, and opened my mouth.
The sound that came out was not mine.
It rose and dipped, pitched higher than I had ever reached, lower than I thought possible. It vibrated in my chest, in the air, in the ground. It was not words, not language, but it carried something deeper — intention, feeling, presence.
And the forest answered.
A shape slipped from the shadows, silent and deliberate. Yellow eyes glinted. A wolf.
My breath caught.
It growled low, uncertain, its ears twitching at the sound.
I answered, my throat shaping sounds that burned but felt right. My voice cracked, strained, but carried.
The wolf froze, head tilting. Then, slowly, cautiously, it stepped closer.
We stood a few feet apart, two creatures in the dark. I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then, with a low huff, the wolf lowered its head.
Not submission. Not fear.
Acknowledgment.
Trust.
My chest ached with something I couldn't name. Tears stung my eyes.
It worked.
I didn't sleep that night.
I sat on the ridge until dawn, the wolf gone back into the shadows, my throat raw, my body shaking.
But inside me, something had shifted.
I was no longer just building the sanctuary.
I was becoming part of it.