Chapter 7

Sienna's POV

The sky above the Bloodmoon territory had turned the color of a fresh bruise by late afternoon. Heavy, bruised-purple clouds rolled over the jagged peaks of the Northern Ridge, blotting out the remaining sunlight and bringing an unnatural, oppressive dusk forward by two hours.

Cold wind whipped through the towering pines, making the branches scrape against the stone walls of the packhouse like desperate, clutching fingers.

Inside my tiny servant’s quarters on the lowest floor—a cramped room with a narrow iron bed, a cracked washbasin, and no window—the quiet was deafening.

I stood over my bed, staring down at the meager belongings spread across the thin, threadbare blanket.

A second plain tunic, a pair of patched wool socks, a small carved wooden wolf my father had given me before his death, and a small leather pouch containing seventeen copper coins—my entire life's savings after five years of endless, backbreaking labor.

My hands trembled as I folded the tunic, my fingers stiff and cold. The dry, bitter scent of the Moon-tea I had poured down the drain still lingered on my skin, a ghost of Jaxson’s cold decree.

Before nightfall.

He hadn't wanted me anywhere near his grand halls when the northern scouts arrived. He hadn't wanted his new bride, Lady Valerie, to be bothered by the sight of the Omega he had discarded in front of his elders.

A sudden, sharp flash of lightning illuminated the tiny room through the crack in the heavy doorframe, followed immediately by a deafening boom of thunder that shook the stone foundations beneath my feet.

The storm had arrived early, breaking over the valley with violent, unbridled fury. Rain began to slash down in thick, icy sheets, rattling against the high glass windows of the upper floors far above me.

"Good," I whispered to the empty room, my voice flat and hollow, stripped of all emotion. "The rain will wash away my scent."

I packed my few items into a worn canvas shoulder bag, pulling the drawstring tight and slinging it over my head so it rested against my ribcage. I pulled a dark, heavy wool cloak over my shoulders—a garment meant for winter wood-gathering—and flipped the deep hood over my head, shadowing my pale face.

I didn't take a last look around the room. There was nothing here worth remembering. No warmth, no kindness, no lingering echoes of love. This room had been a cage, and the packhouse a gilded prison where I had been trained to keep my head low and swallow every insult thrown my way.

I slipped out into the narrow, dimly lit service corridor.

The storm had driven most of the off-duty guards and servants into the grand hall or their private quarters on the middle levels. The low-ranking wolves were busy preparing the grand dining tables for the evening meal with the northern envoys. The scent of roasted venison, spiced ale, and fresh pine floated down the stone stairwells, mocking my empty stomach.

I kept to the shadows of the lower cellars, my soft leather boots making no sound against the cold, damp flags. I knew every hidden passage and narrow shortcut in the lower foundation of the packhouse—routes I had used for years to carry heavy loads of firewood and laundry without getting in the way of high-ranking warriors.

I reached the heavy, arched timber door that led out toward the rear kitchens and the wood-storage courtyard. The iron latch was cold against my palm. I lifted it slowly, easing the door open just enough to slip through, then pulled it shut behind me until the latch clicked back into place.

The moment I stepped outside, the tempest slammed into me like a physical wall.

Icy, torrential rain hit my hood, soaking through the outer layer of wool in seconds and plastering my clothes to my skin. The wind howled through the courtyard, tearing at my cloak and forcing me to keep my head ducked low as I navigated past stacked logs, broken wooden crates, and overflowing rain barrels.

A flash of lightning ripped through the black sky, turning the entire courtyard a blinding, stark white for a fraction of a second.

In that brief, artificial daylight, I saw two guards standing beneath the wooden overhang of the perimeter gatehouse forty yards away. They were high-ranking warriors, their heavy leather coats embossed with the Bloodmoon crest, their arms crossed as they took shelter from the torrential downpour.

"Nasty night for a patrol," one guard grumbled, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind and thunder.

"Alpha’s orders," the other replied, spitting into the mud. "Lockdown on the southern perimeter. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out without a signed pass from Beta Caleb."

My heart did a frantic, violent flip in my chest. Lockdown? Had Jaxson already ordered the perimeter sealed? Was he hunting for me, or was he simply protecting his northern guests from rogue scouts?

It didn't matter. I couldn't use the main gate.

I backed up into the shadow of the woodpile, my mind racing. If I tried to cross the open muddy courtyard to the gatehouse, they would spot me instantly. They would drag me back to the lower cellars, or worse, take me directly to Jaxson to face his cold judgment for attempting to leave without official papers.

I turned away from the gatehouse, heading toward the eastern edge of the courtyard where the high stone perimeter wall met the dense timberline of the forest. There was an old drainage culvert built into the base of the wall—a narrow, iron-grated tunnel where the mountain runoff washed through during heavy snowmelts.

The mud pulled at my boots with every step, heavy and thick, threatening to tear them from my feet. Rain ran in cold streams down my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision, but I pressed forward, my hands gripping the damp canvas bag tightly against my chest.

I reached the culvert at the far edge of the wall.

The iron grate was rusted, half-buried in wet silt, leaves, and slippery river stones. I dropped to my knees in the freezing mud, my fingers digging desperately into the wet earth around the base of the iron bars. The iron was freezing, biting into my skin, but I refused to stop. I grabbed two of the lower, rusted bars and pulled with every ounce of strength left in my aching body.

The rust groaned, the iron resisting for a agonizing second before the bottom weld snapped under the pressure, giving way with a loud, metallic screech that was thankfully swallowed by a deafening crash of thunder overhead.

I didn't hesitate. I shoved my canvas bag through the small opening first, then squeezed my shoulders through the narrow gap between the bent iron and the cold stone foundation.

The sharp, rusted metal tore through the sleeve of my tunic, scraping a raw line along my forearm, but I barely felt the pain. I dragged my hips and legs through the cold, muddy water rushing out of the culvert, scrambling through the darkness until my hands broke through the silt on the other side.

I tumbled out of the stone wall and onto the muddy slope of the outer forest bank.

I lay in the mud for a long, shuddering moment, gasping for air, the cold rain washing the silt from my face and clothes. I turned my head, looking back up through the downpour at the massive, dark silhouette of the Bloodmoon Packhouse sitting high on the ridge.

Lights glowed warmly from the high windows of the upper floor—the Alpha suite. Jaxson was up there right now, comfortable, warm, dry, and surrounded by his elders and northern allies. He was likely raising a silver goblet with Lady Valerie, sealing treaties that secured his border power, completely unbothered by the fact that the female he had held in his arms twelve hours ago was lying in the freezing mud outside his walls.

My chest cracked open, a silent, agonizing sob tearing through my throat. My wolf let out one last, long, mournful howl deep within my soul—a sound of pure, unadulterated grief for the bond that had been shattered, for the love that had been crushed under the weight of pride and politics.

"Goodbye, Jaxson," I whispered into the howling storm, my voice swallowed instantly by the roaring wind.

I pushed myself up off the wet ground, wiping the icy rain and mud from my eyes. I grabbed my soaked canvas bag, pulled my dripping hood tightly over my head, and turned my back on the Bloodmoon Packhouse.

I stepped into the vast, black wilderness of the northern pine forest, disappearing into the dark and the rain, leaving the only home I had ever known behind me forever.