Living in the Shadow of My Sister

Nadia'S POV

I stumbled back to my shabby room, a dark, damp space in the far corner of the servants' quarters that smelled of mold and neglect. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I dragged myself to the thin, ragged mattress that served as my bed. The stone walls were cold to the touch, sucking the warmth from my bones like a leech. I curled up on the worn fabric, hugging my knees to my chest, and the tears I had held back in the hall came rushing out, hot and uncontrollable.

The world outside was silent, save for the distant howling of the wind through the cracks in the walls. My breath hitched, each sob tearing through my chest like a jagged knife. I couldn’t stop thinking of Gloria—her face, her voice, her final words to me. "Sunshine, run!"

That nickname—my name—pierced me deeper than any wound. Sunshine. She hadn’t called me that in years. I buried my face in my arms, my shoulders trembling with the weight of it all. She used to call me Sunshine every day, back when we were young and inseparable, before everything changed, before she changed.

"Why did you call me that again, Tori?" I thought as the sobs wracked my body. "Why only in your last breath?"

I closed my eyes and let the memories come, let them take me away from this place, from the cold and the pain.

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Flashback

Before we turned 13, Gloria and I were more than sisters; we were a team, two halves of the same whole. Where she went, I followed, and where I led, she was right behind me. We did everything together—training, hunting, dreaming of the day we’d run side by side through the moonlit forests.

“Come on, Sunshine, keep up!” Gloria would laugh, her hair wild and her eyes bright as she sprinted ahead of me through the woods. I’d chase after her, panting and grinning, the sun casting dappled shadows on our faces.

She always called me Sunshine. She said it was because my hair caught the sunlight like a beacon, bright and warm, just like me. I was the little sister, always in her shadow, but she never made me feel small. Not back then.

One day, when the trees were heavy with the scent of pine and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn, Gloria came to me with a gleam in her eyes. “Sunshine, I’m going hunting in the forest. Wanna come?”

I was lying on my bed, half-asleep from a lazy afternoon. I yawned and stretched, glancing up at her with half-lidded eyes. “Nah, I think I’ll stay here and nap. You know me—your little lazybones.”

She laughed softly and ruffled my hair. “Alright, little lazybones. I’ll go by myself then. Don’t get too bored without me.”

I watched her leave, her steps light and eager, and I remember feeling a pang of guilt. I should have gone with her. But I shrugged it off. "She’ll be fine," I’d told myself. Gloria could handle herself in the woods. She was always the stronger one, the braver one.

But then she didn’t come back that night. Or the next day. And the whole pack descended into chaos.

Warriors, scouts, everyone—my father, the Alpha, led the search, his face pale with worry. My mother, the Luna, prayed to the Moon Goddess every waking second, her eyes red from crying. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. The house felt empty, like a void had swallowed all the light, all the warmth. And I realized how much I needed her, how lost I was without her.

When Gloria finally returned after two days, everyone rejoiced, myself most of all. I remember running to her, throwing my arms around her and burying my face in her neck, breathing in her scent. “Tori! Tori, I thought I lost you!”

But she didn’t hug me back. She stood stiff, her body cold and unyielding. I pulled back, confused, searching her face for the warmth that had always been there. She looked the same, but something in her eyes had changed. When she smiled, it wasn’t the bright, loving smile I’d known my whole life—it was colder, more distant, like a stranger’s smile wearing my sister’s face.

“Sorry to worry you,” she said, her voice flat. “I’m fine now. Don’t be so dramatic.”

I blinked up at her, feeling the sting of her words. It wasn’t like her to be so... distant. So cold. But I nodded, swallowing back my hurt. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

From that day on, Gloria was never the same. She stopped calling me Sunshine, stopped laughing with me. Her smiles were scarce, and when they did come, they were thin and strained, lacking the warmth they once had. I couldn’t understand it. I thought maybe she was mad at me for not going with her that day, for not being there when she needed me.

So I tried everything to make it up to her. I made her little gifts—hand-carved trinkets from wood, braided bracelets, anything I thought might bring back her smile. I even learned to cook her favorite meals, spending hours in the kitchen until my hands were blistered and my feet ached. But no matter what I did, her eyes remained distant, her voice cold.

I’d wait for her to say it again, to call me Sunshine, but she never did. I lost count of the times I stayed up late, listening to her move around in the room next to mine, wanting to knock on her door and ask, "What happened to you?" But the words always got stuck in my throat.

End of Flashback

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My tears flowed freely now, soaking into the thin mattress beneath me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed hearing that name, how much I missed her—the real Gloria. The sister who used to laugh with me, who used to love me.

It wasn’t until the moment she saved me—pushing me out of harm’s way, sacrificing herself for me—that I heard it again. "Sunshine, run!" She’d said it with so much urgency, so much desperation. It had been years since that word passed her lips, and she’d saved it for her dying breath.

Why? Why then? Why, after all those years of silence and coldness, did she use it again?

I would never know. That was the cruelty of it. She was gone, my parents were gone, and I was left alone with nothing but these questions and the crushing weight of regret. I clutched my chest, feeling the emptiness there, the gnawing void where their love used to be.

I should have gone with her that day. Maybe I could have protected her. Maybe she would have stayed my sister, the one who called me Sunshine and patted my head when I was lazy. Maybe none of this would have happened.

But it did happen, and now I was here, lying on a cold, hard bed in a pack that hated me, my heart breaking over and over again as I whispered into the darkness, "I’m sorry, Tori. I’m so, so sorry."

But the shadows swallowed my words, and there was no one left to hear them.