I Stole His Mark

The mark was never meant for me.

Not for a servant girl raised in the shadows. Not for a half-blood whose name was spoken only in orders and insults. Not for someone like me, who belonged to no one and came from nowhere.

The mark was meant for greatness. For the chosen daughter of legacy and war. For Helena, golden and perfect and unstoppable.

But it found me instead.

It wrapped around my bones like a curse. It claimed me as if I were worthy.

And the moment it did, everything I’d ever known shattered like glass under a predator’s paw.

It struck like lightning—sudden, blinding, alive. Pain bloomed across my shoulder blade, deep and ancient, as if my blood knew it didn’t belong. My knees buckled under the force of it, and I fell hard to the forest floor, choking on the scent of moss and smoke and magic.

Behind me, the crowd’s gasp broke like thunder—shocked, disbelieving, and sharp enough to slice through the tension that had gripped the Hollow for weeks.

Mothers clutched their daughters. Elders stood frozen. The priestess dropped her bowl of moon-blessed ash, the silvery dust scattering like snow over sacred stone. Someone cried out Helena’s name—half in panic, half in fury.

I turned just long enough to see Helena rising from her kneel, face twisted in something raw and terrible. Her lips curled back from her teeth, her eyes burning with the fury of a woman denied what was promised, what was owed.

And all around her, wolves began to shift.

“She wasn’t part of the Offering.”

Chaos ignited.

I staggered to my feet, legs trembling beneath me, vision blurred with tears and white-hot pain. For a heartbeat, I thought maybe it was a mistake—that if I stayed, if I dropped to my knees and begged, they’d rip the mark away and give it to its rightful bearer.

But then I saw the look in Helena’s eyes.

Not shock. Not betrayal.

Murder.

The sound of bones cracking filled the air as the wolves around her shifted. I didn’t wait to see who lunged first.

I turned and ran.

Through the sacred stones, through the circle carved into the land by generations of blood and power, into the trees beyond where no wolf dared go without permission.

I ran like prey. Like a thief. Like a girl who had just broken something holy and would never be forgiven.

And the mark burned brighter the farther I fled.

Barefoot, breathless, and glowing.

The sacred mark—a curling, ancestral sigil—burned into my skin, pulsing with silver light. It throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, alive beneath my flesh, a brand that should have chosen someone else. Someone worthy.

But instead, it chose me.

A week earlier, I was still invisible.

"Ilia," Mistress Tessa snapped, tossing a rag at my face. "That corner still smells like blood. Scrub it again."

I bit the inside of my cheek and knelt lower. The scent of iron clung to the Offering Stones even after a full day of scouring. My fingers were raw, nails cracked and blackened from weeks of preparation. No one cared. Least of all Mistress Tessa.

She stood over me like a hawk, her graying hair scraped back into a bun so tight it looked painful. She was a full-blooded wolf, once part of the guard, now reduced to managing servants—and taking out the disappointment on half-bloods like me.

"Do you want the Alpha to see filth when he steps onto the sacred ground? Do you want to shame the Hollow during the most important ritual in a generation?"

"No, Mistress."

"Then clean it properly."

I dipped the rag back into the bucket and swallowed the burn rising in my throat. Not from the soap. From the fury. From the years of being spat on, ignored, forgotten.

I was a servant. Worse—a half-breed. No pack would claim me. No mate would seek me. I was born of a forbidden union, and for that, I would live and die in shadow.

But I watched. I listened. And I remembered everything.

That night, after the stones were spotless and the moons began their slow climb across the sky, I sat on the edge of the servant’s balcony overlooking the Hollow’s ceremonial courtyard.

From here, I could see the platforms being built for the Alpha's choosing. Could hear the nobles laughing, the daughters of power giggling behind their silk veils, preparing themselves to be seen—touched—claimed.

And then I saw him.

Not clearly. Just a shadow moving across the terrace behind the Beta's hall. But even in shadow, he was unmistakable. The Alpha.

Tall. Broad. Unbending.

The rumors whispered of his savagery—of the beasts he fought in no-man’s lands, of the blood he spilled for the Hollow’s protection. They said he bore no affection, no softness. That he’d delayed his claiming for years because no one had earned it.

But now, he had chosen.

The Luna Trials had gone on for weeks. A spectacle of strength, cunning, and blood. It wasn’t just about beauty—no, the Hollow demanded more. To be Luna was to rule beside the Alpha, to bear his heirs, to survive him if need be. The trials were proof of worth.

Twenty girls were selected from the strongest bloodlines—daughters of Betas, war captains, high advisors. They were paraded through tests that were less ritual and more warfare. One week they battled in the arena, shifting mid-air as they fought in front of the entire pack. Another week, they were dropped into the northern wilds, forced to survive without aid and return with a kill. One girl was nearly ripped apart by a rogue. Another never returned.

Through it all, Helena rose like a flame—untouched, unchallenged. She commanded the arena floor like she’d been born there, her golden hair streaked with warpaint, her voice slicing the air when she roared. The crowd adored her. The Council adored her. They whispered her name like a prophecy.

Helena would be Luna. She had already won.

The final night was to be the choosing. The Alpha would bestow his ancestral mark onto the victor, binding her to him before the pack and the gods.

It was all decided.

Until it wasn’t.

They said it would be Helena.

She was everything I was not. Golden. Royal. Untouched. She had teeth and charm and the perfect pedigree. Daughters like her were raised to be Lunas.

Me? I was a ghost in the rafters.

And yet I dreamed.

Not of being chosen—but of being seen. Just once.

I never expected the gods to hear me.

I never expected them to answer.

But they did.

And they burned their answer into my skin.