Chapter 1

The Blackwood Pack was leaving. This dark forest could no longer sustain us.

Only me, Elara Vega, was forgotten.

Felix Sable, our Alpha. He used to brush leaves from my hair and call me "Little Elara, don’t be afraid." Ever since he claimed the wolfhead crest, ever since I was mauled by a giant bear at sixteen while protecting him…everything changed. The blow fractured my wolf soul. My memory faded, my sense of direction vanished, and I became weaker than the frailest Omega. Worst of all, I could no longer feel the wolf within me, unable to shift. Felix’s gaze lost its warmth, replaced by cold assessment and silent sighs. He never yelled, but his gentle excuses—"You’re too weak," "You need rest"—pushed me away with icy precision. No hatred, just disappointed distance that hurt more than scorn.

That evening, I went to his study to ask if the new territory had space for my herb garden. The heavy oak door stood ajar, and Felix’s low voice mingled with the butler’s.

"…Patrols near Sterling Pass report suspicious tracks. The migration route must be rerouted! No time to waste!" Felix’s Alpha tone brooked no argument.

"Yes, my lord. Supplies and maps will be ready by nightfall." The butler hesitated. "And… Miss Vega’s arrangements? The elders’ proposal?" A pause. "Migration is too dangerous. Her health… she won’t survive. The elders believe a Luna who can’t shift or protect herself would be a liability in the new territory—even a weakness to exploit. They suggest…considering a stronger, more suitable mate to solidify our position."

My heart lurched, nails biting my palm.

Felix was silent—a silence that crushed me. When he spoke, his voice was steady, icy.

"Elara’s limitations are clear, butler." He stated it as fact. "A broken wolf soul, unable to shift—lethal flaws. Migration isn’t a picnic; it’s a fight for survival. One mistake—wild beasts, a blizzard, even falling behind—would kill her. She needs a safe haven, not a death march with the pack."

Another pause, as if acknowledging the elders’ suggestion. "For now, survival comes first. The new territory is unsecure. I can’t afford distractions—extra guards, constant worry. It endangers the entire pack. Staying in the ancestral manor, where she’s familiar and cared for, is best." He didn’t endorse replacing me, but his words did. "Constant worry”, “endangers"—those words shattered my last hope.

Anger, shame, and the fury of being labeled a liability surged. Again! Exile masked as "safety," abandonment justified as "duty." Was this empty manor to be my grave? The elders’ proposal, his silence…a blade hovering over our bond.

No. This time, I refused to be discarded. I’d prove that even with a broken soul, frail body, and faulty memory, I wasn’t just a burden to be pitied. I’d reach the new territory on my own!

I raced to my cold tower room, a single thought burning. I’ll beat him there. Let Felix Sable see his "fragile liability" walk the path he deemed impossible.

I yanked open the drawer, grabbing my faded wildflower-patterned linen bundle. Inside went thick wool dresses, a pouch of dried herbs (rosemary for calm, thyme for cold), a small biscuit mold, honey-oat cakes wrapped in parchment—my meager tools for survival. And a heavy pouch of silver coins—my lifeline.

At dawn, the manor still slept. I slipped out like a shadow. The market was quiet, coachmen shouting destinations.

"Where to, miss?" A bearded driver eyed me sideways.

I froze. Where? The new territory’s name…Sterling…Sterling…it swam in my fractured memory, slippery as an eel.

"Hurry up! Blackwood Vale? Silverflow Town? Broken Tooth Pass?" The driver waved impatiently.

I feared that disdainful look—the look of being deemed a fool. In panic, I shoved coins into his hand. "St…Sterling! Take me near Sterling Pack!" I clung to the name I’d overheard—Sterling, the powerful pack bordering our new home.

The carriage jolted over rough roads. I huddled in the corner, clutching my bundle like a lifeline. Only when the manor’s spire vanished did I dare breathe, tears stinging my eyes—fear, defiance, and the ache of abandonment.

Inside, laborers chatted around a charcoal stove.

"Hey, heard about Alpha Alaric Argent—tough as nails! But still single…"

"Idiot!" an older man spat. "He’s had a betrothed since childhood! Noble blood, perfect match! Wedding’s imminent!"

I leaned against the cold carriage wall, lips parched. Betrothed. Perfect match. The words struck like ice. Felix and I had been "promised," once. Now, to the elders, to him, my "white wolf bloodline" meant nothing next to my inability to shift.

Flashbacks: he picking bluebells for me, comforting me after nightmares.

So when the dark magic-twisted bear charged at Felix, my "white wolf bloodline" instincts overrode fear. I shoved him aside…then darkness, and the agony of a shattered soul. I woke to pack Doctor Aelwyn’s grave sigh: "Little one…too deep a wound. Your wolf soul…the ability to shift…memory, direction…" He didn’t finish, but his silence was a death sentence.

I was sixteen, newly aware of my bloodline’s political weight and my arranged fate with Felix. The Sables compensated, reaffirming: At adulthood, Felix will make me Luna.

By my bed, the budding Alpha clasped my hand, eyes conflicted: "Elara, don’t worry. When I become Alpha, I will make you my Luna. Blackwood needs your blood. I’ll…take care of you."

I believed him. Or chose to. Year after year, I watched the old apple tree bloom and fall.

At eighteen, on another apple harvest day, I baked herb biscuits with trembling hands and approached his study.

"Felix! I’m…I’m an adult now!" I held out the warm tray, voice shaking.

He was with a distinguished visitor—later, I learned it was Alaric Sterling. Felix turned, frowned at the sight of me, irritation and embarrassment flashing in his eyes. He glanced at servants, voice clipped: " Your memory’s playing tricks on you, Elara. The betrothal requires you to be ‘fully recovered,’ fit to lead as Luna. You’re nowhere close. Rest, and stop fantasizing."

As Alaric approached, Felix’s irritation vanished, replaced by a polished smile. "Lord Alaric! Congratulations. Your fiancée is noble, brilliant, and composed—a perfect partner, no doubt your greatest asset." He didn’t look back.

I stood there, holding the now-cold, bitter-smelling biscuits, retreating to the icy courtyard steps. His praise for Alaric’s "greatest asset" vs. his dismissal of me—cruel contrast. The elders’ whispers, his cold logic—chains tightening.

I wanted to scream: It’s your memory that’s playing tricks on you, Felix!

But it didn’t matter. I, the baker, the herb girl, would never be an "asset."

Being left behind didn’t matter.

I…would go alone.

Just as you always called me a burden on your journeys.

This time…I’ll go first. To the place you’re abandoning me for.

Will you finally see…that your "weakness" is stronger than you think?