1. Chapter

The first thing I feel in the morning is the cold stone floor under my skin and the sour smell of mold. We omegas sleep in the hole they call a storage room—twelve cots, too many bodies, too few blankets. My blanket is as stiff as cardboard. My hair is matted with sweat and ash, and the skin around my wrist is red where the iron clasp rubs. I sit up. Pain flashes through my ankle; I fell during training yesterday because someone shoved me. I didn’t look back, didn’t ask why—I just got up and kept running. That’s how things work here.

“Get up, snow-chick.” Mara, the female supervisor of the storeroom, kicks my bed. She isn’t an omega, but she has no real rank in the pack. That’s where she gets her power—from us, the ones she can control. “The kitchen’s on fire. Kian wants breakfast. And the guests are coming today.”

My stomach tightens at the name. Kian. The Alpha’s son. The smile that isn’t a smile, only teeth. The voice that sounds smooth but can turn into a slap or a kick at the end of any word. I spring to my feet, shaking out my hair with practiced movements—though there’s nothing to shake out, just rough, tangled knots. There’s no mirror in the dormitory. I don’t need one. I know how I look: snow-white hair, blue eyes, pale skin—a girl covered in dust, whose gaze says she won’t cry no matter what you do.

I grab the coarse gray linen dress we all wear. Rope belt at the waist. I step into the corridor. The stone walls are damp, the air cold, the light dim. The Blackrock Pack’s den is carved into the belly of a mountain, and every hallway feels like a trap. As I approach the kitchen, I already hear the clatter of pans, the crackle of fire, and the shouting.

“Where the fuck is the omelet?!” That’s Kian. His voice fills the room like smoke. Everyone moves at once, like insects when the light turns on. The cooks’ hands tremble, the younger omegas lower their eyes. So do I. Always.

“There you are, snow-chick.” His voice is suddenly next to my ear. I didn’t hear him approach. My body tenses instinctively, shoulders drawn up, fingers clenching the wooden spoon. Stupid move—he notices immediately.

“Relax.” His fingers slide onto my shoulder, then down my arm. Too slow. I know that rhythm. It’s the game he likes: he comes close, touches, and waits to see when his prey dares to breathe. In his mind, this is just training. We’re learning our place.

“The Red Moon delegation’s coming.” His lips brush my hair. “We’re going to shine. You too, little chick. I don’t want to see that pathetic pity on your face.”

“Yes, sir.” My voice is soft, hollow. I drop the words like stones. I’ve said them for so long that sometimes I believe there’s no other choice.

His fingers stop at the metal clasp around my wrist. A pause. My body goes rigid. If he pulls now, it’ll hurt. If he lets go, it’ll hurt later.

He lets go. “Omelet. Now.”

I move. The kitchen burns with heat and the stench of smoke. I beat the eggs, the iron plate hisses, the butter sizzles. My hands move out of habit, my mind empty, counting only: how many plates, how many bites, how long until this shift ends. My stomach twists from hunger, but that’s nothing new.

Beyond the kitchen, the noise grows louder—clashing weapons, boots striking stone, short, sharp commands. The pack is preparing. The Red Moon. The rival pack everyone whispers about: stronger, crueler, and their Alpha… Their Alpha is the subject of every rumor worth fearing. That he killed his own brother. That he rules a circle where wolves don’t speak—only kill. That his presence alone makes the weak drop to their knees.

Those stories scare children. I don’t need stories. Fear is my resting state.

Kian stands on the other side of the counter, spinning an empty glass between his fingers. He’s always moving, even when he looks still. One moment bored, the next violent. When he wins a fight, he laughs. When he loses, he hits. When he’s bored—it’s our turn.

“Let’s pour them wine,” he says to someone. “The best one. I don’t want them thinking we’re poor.”

“We’re not,” the head cook mutters.

Kian smiles. His smile is like the flash of a knife. “That’s what I love about this place. Everyone’s so… honest.”

The Alpha—Kian’s father—rarely comes to the kitchen. He sits upstairs in council, making decisions. The real world is run by his son. Everyone knows it, and everyone pretends they don’t.

At the breakfast peak, when the dishes run out and so do the people, someone walks into the kitchen I haven’t seen before. A new boy, tall, with a faint, naive light still in his eyes. He’s carrying a tray and looking for someone to tell him where to put it.

“There.” I point toward the table lined with steaming plates. My voice is soft but clear. The boy nods, trips over a sack, and barely catches the tray’s edge. Two eggs slide to the floor. The sound is like bone breaking.

The kitchen freezes. Kian is already at the door. He turns toward the boy slowly. He doesn’t shout. That’s what I hate most.

“What are you doing?” The question is gentle, as if he actually cares about the answer.

The boy’s throat trembles. “S-sorry, sir.”

“Sorry.” Kian steps closer. I see his hand rise. Reflex. I tense too, even though he’s not looking at me. The boy flinches.

“Enough,” I say. Stupid. My mouth moves before my brain. “I’ll do it.” I step forward, kneel, and start scraping the egg from the floor. The hot oil burns my hand. I don’t make a sound.

Kian’s fingers freeze in the air. With his other hand, he grips my hair at the roots and lifts my head. His gaze is close, eyes dark. The pain is sharp, tears gather instinctively—but don’t fall.

“You’re talking to me?” His voice isn’t gentle anymore.

“T-the food would stay on the floor. Waste,” I whisper. My throat is dry. If I swallow, he’ll feel the movement between his fingers.

For a moment, it looks like he’s thinking—then he lets go. My head drops. My hair slaps my face. My ears ring. He didn’t hit me. Not this time. I need to remember that. Still, my body trembles.

“Smart girl,” he says. Not an endearment. A sneer. “Clean it up. The guests don’t like to eat in filth.”

One word. “Yes.”

By the end of breakfast, my hands are sticky with oil, my forearms dusted with flour, my back bent. My stomach stays empty. As I leave the kitchen, Mara grabs my shoulder in the corridor.

“You idiot,” she hisses. “Why did you speak up? He’d have just dragged that kid out, and that’s it. But no—you had to put yourself in his sight. You like it, don’t you?”

“No.” I try to move on, but she grips tighter.

“Good girls stay quiet. That’s how survival works.” She lets go. “Afternoon—storage. The guests are here, and I want order. You’ll clean the freezer.”

I nod and go. Footsteps echo in the hall, weapons clink. The torches along the wall fill my nose with smoke. I get dizzy for a second, then move on.

The storeroom is cold. The metal pipes are rimed with frost, the air reeks of shadows and raw meat. I have to wash the coolers, rearrange the meat, check the dates. My hands go numb, my fingers turn purple. Still—it’s good here. It’s quiet. No one looks at me. When I’m here, my wolf growls softly inside me, like a dog running in its sleep. Not strong, not awake—but alive. That’s what keeps me breathing. The murmur tells me one day everything will change. I whisper back: I hope you’re right.

Around noon, a horn sounds from the courtyard above. A deep, long note we don’t hear every day. I stop, the rag dripping in my hand. The horn sounds again. A delegation arrives. My stomach tightens again—no longer from hunger.

I’m not allowed in the courtyard, but a side corridor from the storeroom leads to a small, windowless atrium where there’s a crack in the wall. If I stand there and tilt my head, I can see a sliver of the main gate. I didn’t find this spot. Omegas pass down such secrets like air. I press myself against the wall, the stone cold against my skin, and peek through.

At first, I see only boots. Heavy, black boots crusted with dried mud. Then the movement of men behind them—weapons on shoulders, cloaks of fur, leather, steel. Through the air drifts a scent of meat, smoke, and something metallic and foreign I can’t name. The Red Moon wolves. They don’t speak. They move in a dense, silent line. Their motion isn’t military, yet it’s precise.

And then I look up at him. I don’t mean to—but I do. He comes last, as if the entire procession had been waiting for him. Tall. So tall the gate behind him seems narrow. Broad shoulders, dark clothes—leather and some heavy fabric. No insignia, no ornament—only the body, which is the threat. His eyes… I can’t see their color from here, but I feel them sweep across the courtyard. The kind of gaze that doesn’t need a voice. People around him fall silent instinctively.

I bow my head. My chest feels as if two hands are squeezing it. I don’t know him, yet something cold runs down my spine. He isn’t like Kian. There’s no playfulness, no sadistic thrill. This is worse. This is pure power. My body reacts instantly: breathe slower, don’t move, melt into the wall. Maybe he won’t notice I’m here.

“That’s enough.” Mara’s voice behind me—and she shoves me away from the wall. “What are you doing here? Get back. This isn’t your business.”

“Cleaning,” I say, holding up the rag. My voice is empty again. That’s my shield. If you’re hollow, you might stay invisible.

“They’re heading to the council hall,” Mara mutters, peeking through the crack like a gossiping cat. “The Alpha’s meeting them. Rumor says they want a trade agreement. Sure.” She snorts. “Kian’s thrilled. He’ll show off his toys.”

His toys. The empty, bare little room I’ve stood in before. It doesn’t have much in it—but enough. Rods, straps, water. You don’t need much to teach someone their limits. I don’t want to think about it. I turn back to the freezer.

By afternoon, the storeroom is spotless, and my hands are full of fresh cuts. From the upper corridor come shouting, then laughter. The wrong kind of laughter. I know what it means. Mara appears again.

“You. With me.” She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t have to. I go.