Chapter 1: The dust of the servant quarters

FAYE'S POV

The hearth stone was cold beneath my knees, hard enough to ache after the first hour. By the third, I'd stopped noticing the pain altogether. My fingernails were already raw from yesterday's work in the laundry—scrubbing Alpha Silas's ceremonial silks until my hands cramped—so the new blisters forming along my palms felt almost like an old friend returning.

I dipped the stiff bristle brush back into the bucket of grey water and attacked the next stone with whatever strength I had left. Soot came away in dark clouds, coating my already-filthy apron and settling into the creases of my wrists. The stone beneath gradually revealed its original color—a deep charcoal grey that probably looked impressive when freshly cleaned. Probably.

I'd never actually seen it look impressive. By the time the household staff finished their work each day, the evening fires had already begun their relentless redeposition of ash and debris.

A drum beat echoed through the thick stone walls of the servant quarters, faint but unmistakable. Deep. Resonant. The kind of sound that made something primal stir beneath my human skin.

The Mating Festival.

Of course it was today.

I sat back on my heels, pushing a strand of dark auburn hair away from my forehead with the back of my grimy hand. The main hall would be transforming right now—servants hanging the ceremonial silks in shades of silver and midnight blue, the kitchens preparing the feast that would begin at sunset. The great courtyard would already be filling with pack members in their finest furs and jewelry, wolves from neighboring territories arriving to witness the bondings.

Another drum beat. Closer this time. More insistent.

My wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin, responding to that ancient call in ways my human mind couldn't quite articulate. She pressed forward with a quiet urgency that made my chest tight.

I ignored her and went back to scrubbing.

The servant quarters were separate from the main pack house—deliberately, I'd always assumed. Three stone buildings arranged in a rough rectangle around a central courtyard that flooded with rainwater every spring and turned to mud every winter. This was where the cooks slept, where the laundry staff hung their drying clothes on lines that never quite dried in the Pacific Northwest dampness, where the groundskeepers stored their tools, and where I existed in the margins, moving between tasks that needed doing.

The hearth in the main servants' hall was where everyone gathered when the weather turned bitter. Where they talked and laughed and pretended not to notice when I sat in the corner, organizing the historical records that no one else wanted to touch.

Where they looked through me like I was made of glass.

"Faye." A sharp voice cut through the drum beats. "Did you finish those stones yesterday?"

I didn't look up. I recognized the tone—irritation, impatience. The head steward, Mrs. Thorne. No relation to anyone important. Just a woman with iron-grey hair and a face that had forgotten how to soften.

"Most of them," I said quietly, keeping my hands moving. "I'll have the rest done before the evening meal."

"Alpha Silas has guests arriving this afternoon. The stones in the main hall need to be spotless." She stood in the doorway, her shadow falling across the hearth. "And before you ask—no, you cannot attend any portion of the festival."

I hadn't been going to ask. I'd never asked. But I felt my wolf flinch anyway, a small, pained movement deep in my chest.

Mrs. Thorne made a soft sound of disapproval—the kind of noise someone makes when they've just confirmed a suspicion about something unpleasant. "Back to work, then."

Her footsteps retreated down the corridor, leaving me alone with the smell of ash and the distant thrum of festival drums.

I worked in silence for another hour, my movements becoming almost meditative. Dip brush. Scrub in circular motions. Rinse. Repeat. The rhythm of it was almost soothing—the one thing in my life that followed a predictable pattern. Physical labor didn't demand conversation or require me to navigate the unspoken hierarchies that seemed to shift beneath everyone else's feet like solid ground.

Three buckets of water had turned from grey to black before anyone else appeared in the servant quarters. It was Mara, one of the younger laundry assistants, dressed in the pale blue shift that indicated she'd been summoned to help with something more important than her usual work.

"Faye." She stood in the doorway, breathless, her blonde hair slightly mussed. "You need to get ready."

I looked up, confused. "Ready for what?"

"Didn't Mrs. Thorne tell you?" Mara's eyes were bright with excitement—the kind of excitement that always made me feel like I was missing something obvious. "We're all supposed to help with the preparations. Even you."

Even me.

Those two words carried the weight of every unspoken assessment, every sideways glance, every moment I'd felt the weight of my illegitimacy settle on my shoulders like an extra cloak I could never quite remove.

"Mrs. Thorne said I needed to finish the stones," I said, looking back down at the work.

"She changed her mind. Come on, the main hall needs more hands for the decorations. You can scrub stones tonight." Mara wrinkled her nose slightly at the bucket of black water. "Besides, it'll be fun. The festival is—"

"I'll finish these first," I said quietly.

Mara hesitated, clearly torn between her excitement and whatever sense of obligation she'd been given. The excitement won. "Fine. But hurry. They said they need everyone ready before the guests arrive."

She disappeared back down the corridor, her footsteps quick and light.

I stared at my reflection in the bucket of dirty water—barely visible, dark and distorted. A ghost of a person, pale skin and grey-green eyes that looked too large for my narrow face. My mother used to say those eyes held intelligence, that they were beautiful. My mother had also worked in the servant quarters. Had also been invisible.

Another drum beat, and my wolf pressed forward again with that restless urgency.

This time, I didn't push her back quite so firmly.

I set down the brush and pulled myself to my feet, my knees protesting the movement. The winter light coming through the narrow window was already beginning to shift toward afternoon. The shadows on the stone walls had moved perceptibly while I worked.

If I hurried through the main hall preparations, I might have time to change into the one dress I owned that wasn't threadbare. Not that it mattered. Not that anyone would notice.

But somewhere beneath the practical certainty of that thought, my wolf was still listening to those distant drums, still believing that something might change.

Still hoping.

I picked up my bucket and headed toward the corridor, leaving the partially cleaned stones behind me. The festival was waiting, and for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I found myself moving toward it instead of away.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, my invisible self wanted to be seen.