The Secret Within

POV: Olivia

The days blurred.

I didn’t count them. I couldn’t. Time meant nothing once I fled the Red Moon borders. There was only distance—step after bleeding step until the packhouse was nothing but a shadow I couldn’t hear or smell anymore.

I made it as far as the city gates with nothing but torn shoes and desperation. Work was the only thing anyone would trade me for a roof.

The innkeeper’s wife set me to the lowest tasks—scrubbing pots until my hands split, sweeping floors until my back ached, folding linens until my fingers cramped. The pay was meagre, but it bought bread, a cot in the servants’ quarters, and the illusion of belonging.

I kept my head down. I didn’t ask questions, and nobody asked mine. For a while, it was enough.

Then the sickness came.

At first, I thought it was hunger or spoiled food. But the nausea struck without warning—so sharp I’d stagger outside, clutching the wall until the heaving stopped.

At night, feverish aches made sleep a stranger. By morning, even the smell of stew turned my stomach. I kept working anyway, forcing smiles when the other servants muttered about “bad fish” or “weak stomachs.”

I told myself it would pass. A bug. Exhaustion. Anything.

Until my cycle never came.

The thought hit me in the laundry yard. My hands froze mid-fold, a wet sheet slipping to the ground. My heart slammed hard enough to make me dizzy.

No.

But I already knew.

That night, lying on my cot, I pressed both palms to my stomach. It was too soon to feel anything, too soon to know for certain—but deep down, beneath fear and disbelief, I knew.

I was carrying his child.

The room spun. I turned into the blanket, biting it to muffle my sobs.

Alone. No wolf. No pack. No family. Just me—and this fragile secret I hadn’t asked for.

Tears burned my eyes.

I remembered his hands, his mouth, the way he made me believe I was wanted—if only for one night.

Then I remembered the hall. His voice, hard and merciless.

I reject her.

I shook.

I had begged him once: Reject me now. Spare me the pain.

But he hadn’t.

He had taken what little I had left—my innocence, my trust—and then shattered me before the entire pack.

And now this.

Fear wrapped tight around my ribs. How would I feed a child when I could barely feed myself? How would I protect a child when I can't protect myself, no pack, no family, no wolf.

I pressed harder against my stomach, as if answers might come. Nothing. Only emptiness and terror.

The innkeeper’s wife had seven children. She shouted, scolded, kissed them with equal fire. I couldn’t imagine myself like that. My own mother was long gone. I had no one to ask, no one to guide me, no one to catch me if I fell.

And still—beneath the fear, something else stirred.

Not joy. Not yet. But something stubborn. Something alive.

I lay on my back, staring at the cracked ceiling.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered. “I don’t know if I can.”

Silence answered.

A sob clawed up anyway. I pressed my fist to my mouth, but the words still broke free, muffled and raw.

“I’m scared.”

I stayed like that until exhaustion dragged me under.

At dawn, nausea wracked me again. I retched into a bucket while the other servants muttered, shaking their heads. I smiled weakly and blamed the bad food. They didn’t press.

But I knew.

This was mine now. Mine to carry. Mine to protect.

And as terrifying as that was, one thought cut through the fear:

If the Goddess had taken everything from me, maybe She had left this one thing behind.

A child.

My child.

I didn’t know how I’d raise them. How I’d keep us safe. If I’d ever be enough.

But I knew one thing, fragile but certain—

I would try.