Chapter One

Nyra

The gray, icy light of dawn brought no salvation.

It only promised another day, its weight already pressing on me before my eyes had even opened. I woke as I always did: shivering from the cold, my ears still ringing with the screams that haunted my dreams, my stomach hollow and twisting as if life itself had been torn out of me.

The cell where I spent the nights was no larger than a storage room. The stone walls sweated with damp, winter’s breath seeping through the cracks. The rag I had for a blanket clung to me, wet and heavy, more like the lining of a coffin than shelter. For a moment I lay still, listening: the distant clatter of pots from the kitchens, the faint howling of dogs, the steady, dull rhythm of guards’ footsteps pacing the yard outside.

The weight of steel shackles on my wrists and ankles reminded me once again what I was in this world: no one. A tool. A shadow among wolves. Before the guards even kicked the door open, I had already forced myself up. Every movement was slow, painful — my body screamed in protest from yesterday’s lashes. But there was no room for weakness. Not here. Not for me.

My soles clenched against the sting of cold stone, but I did not stop. I gritted my teeth, snatched up the single rag of clothing they allowed me — a gray, tattered tunic barely covering my wasted body — and stepped out into the freezing dawn. My day began as it always did.

With washing. Always with washing.

The water was ice-cold, biting into my fingers, but I didn’t hesitate. The pack’s dishes — greasy bowls, filthy mugs, knives still slick with blood — all waited for me. And time mattered. If I failed to finish, the whip awaited. I didn’t want new scars today.

The dull clatter of dishes echoed against stone, the rhythm of scrubbing pounding into my skull. Around me, the pack stirred. Alphas, betas — powerful, mocking men and women whose very glances cut as deep as blades — cast scornful eyes on me as they passed.

Some threw words sharper than knives:

— Look, the little traitor’s still breathing.

— Bet he won’t last the day without tears.

— Why waste time on such useless filth?

I gave no answer. I had long since learned that silence was the price of survival. If I wasn’t seen, the whip didn’t find me. If I didn’t hear, it didn’t wound. If I wasn’t there at all, perhaps I could last one more day.

When the washing was done, I moved to the kitchens. Preparing breakfast was the omega’s duty. I peeled vegetables, chopped meat, lit fires in the vast smoke-stained hearth. Kneeling on stone, I stirred the food while the younger betas and alphas jostled one another nearby, grinning, hoping to knock me over so I might be punished again.

Then came the cleaning. The great hall, where Rowan’s new chosen mate had been celebrated the night before, was filthier than ever: mud, blood, shattered jugs across the flagstones. On hands and knees I scrubbed, the cold stone burning into my skin. Every stain was a reminder: I was not one of them. They walked tall beneath the Moon. I crawled in the dirt.

Rowan’s new lover — a beta girl — stepped over me with a mocking smirk, even kicked my face with her muddy boot. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see the glee in her eyes.

The day passed like that: backbreaking labor, humiliation, hands raw and bleeding, muscles burning. Another day where my only goal was to remain invisible. To survive.

And yet, somewhere deep within, that stubborn voice still whispered: Don’t give up. Not yet.

Because something, somewhere, was coming.

⸻

The dining hall roared with sound. Laughter, commands, the rich scent of sizzling meat weighed heavy in the air. I moved among the tables with a heavy tray in my arms. My head bowed, my eyes fixed on the stones beneath me. An omega does not look up. An omega must remain unseen.

On the tray lay the largest portion: roasted meat, thick sauces, fresh bread — all prepared for Rowan, the pack’s alpha. My steps faltered, my hands trembled, but my movements were practiced, drilled into me by years of avoiding disaster.

But that day, disaster sought me out.

As I passed between two tables, a foot shot out. A deliberate, cruel hook of the ankle. I stumbled. The tray slipped from my grasp, and the feast — the meat, the bread, the steaming sauce — spilled straight into Rowan’s lap.

Time froze. Laughter died. Every eye in the hall turned to us.

Rowan rose. His clothes drenched in sauce, but it was not anger that first twisted his face. It was something else. When his eyes met mine — as I knelt on the floor before him — something ancient stirred in him. And in me. My heart thudded in answer to his. I felt his wolf roar within his soul, demanding he look again.

And in that moment, I knew: it was him. He was the one. The bond the Moon had destined for me.

But Rowan’s heart rejected me.

Instead of taking my hand, he seized my arm in a brutal grip, fingers like iron crushing into my flesh.

“Don’t you dare… I reject you,” he hissed, low enough for only me to hear. His voice was ice, dripping with hatred.

A moment later, he shoved me away. I flew like a ragdoll, crashing onto the stones. My ribs cracked. Pain swallowed me whole. I did not scream. I did not cry. I only gasped for breath.

The pack stared for a heartbeat in stunned silence — then their laughter broke loose. Cruel, jeering, sharper than any whip.

Rowan turned his back.

“You are my witnesses,” he said aloud. “You saw how this traitor attacked me.”

His lover smiled sweetly in the shadows. The lie had already been woven. I was guilty. I was lost. No one would defend me.

The soldiers stepped forward. The rattle of chains sealed my fate. Rowan’s voice rang cold:

“Take him to the cells. He will pay the price.”

I did not protest. I did not beg. My silence thundered louder than any cry.

It took two men to drag me to my feet. Every motion was a knife driven into me. Spit and laughter followed me, as though I were a circus beast for their amusement.

The corridors grew darker as they hauled me down. Torchlight drowned in the damp stone, the air thick with rot and blood. At last, shackles clamped against the wall, and they pinned me in place with cold iron.

The chains stretched my arms, my shoulders burned with pain — but inside me, something else stirred. My wolf. My rage. The defiance that refused to break.

Hours passed. Or days. Time did not exist down there, only pain.

When I heard the footsteps, I knew what was coming. The whip’s first strike tore my flesh open. Each lash carved a new mark into me. Even my face did not escape — a blade slashed across the right side, branding me with a scar that would never fade.

I did not scream. My heart only pounded louder, stubborn, wild, like a hammer striking back against the dark.

When silence fell, I was left alone. With the cold. With the wounds. And with the flame that still burned inside me.

Fate had cast me aside once. But even fate could be wrong.

And somewhere, far beyond these walls, another heart — a king’s heart — had heard my call.

And it was coming closer.