Chapter 2 — Blood on the Training Hall Floor

Mira kept her head down, balancing the tray of fresh towels and water pitchers against her hip.

The training hall smelled of sweat, iron, polished wood, and old blood. It was a scent that usually meant safety for the pack, but for her, it was only a reminder of what she lacked.

She had delivered the supplies to the side table and turned to leave, hoping to slip out before the sparring drills began. Wolfless servants were not supposed to interrupt ranked wolves, and visibility was dangerous.

But the heavy doors groaned as young warriors flooded in, their laughter loud and sharp. Mira froze near the exit, trapped by the sudden influx of bodies.

A trainer spotted her lingering and barked an order without breaking stride. She was to clean the blood from the center mats before the Alpha arrived for inspection.

Mira obeyed instantly, setting down her tray. Every command forced her into view when all she wanted was to disappear.

She knelt on the hard floor, the rough grain pressing into her knees. The silence she offered was her only shield, but in this room, silence was just an invitation.

A trainee kicked a wooden practice blade across the floor. It skidded violently, stopping mere inches from her hand.

Laughter rippled through the group. Someone asked if wolfless girls bled slower than real wolves. Another voice warned that if she broke, the pack would have to waste precious medicine on a defect.

Mira did not answer. She kept her eyes fixed on the dark stain beneath her palm.

Anger rose hot in her throat, but anger had no rank here. If she spoke, they would call it disrespect. If she cried, they would call it proof of her weakness.

One warrior stepped too close, his boot invading her space until she flinched. They fed on the reaction, their amusement sharpening into something crueler. Her survival depended on being nothing, yet every breath she took in their presence felt like a transgression.

Then her cloth touched a fresh streak of crimson on the mat.

Blood should have meant nothing to her. Her nose was weak, her instincts dormant, her soul-wolf long gone. Blood was only biology.

But the hall suddenly tilted.

For one blinding second, she was not kneeling on wood. She saw silver paws on dark stone. She felt a chain biting into fur. A girl’s voice cried out in a distance that was also impossibly close.

Mira gasped, dropping the cloth as if burned.

Across the hall, Cassia Ashford stiffened mid-stride. Her silver eyes flashed with a light that was not entirely human.

Mira stared, chest heaving. She smelled blood she should not be able to smell. And somewhere across the room, Cassia felt it too.

Cassia crossed the distance before anyone could question Mira’s clumsy pause.

She smiled, though the expression didn't reach those still-fading silver eyes. She asked loudly if Mira was pretending to faint for attention. The warriors laughed again, eager to please the future Luna.

Cassia reached down and plucked the bloody cloth from Mira’s trembling hand. She let it fall back onto the floor with deliberate disdain.

“Clean it properly,” Cassia said, her voice smooth as glass. “Even a wolfless girl should know her use.”

Mira forced herself to kneel again. Her fingers shook, not from fear of Cassia’s cruelty, but from the aftershock of a vision that belonged to another body.

Cassia watched her, and beneath the performance of superiority, there was a flicker of something else. Fear. Her wolf had reacted, and she did not understand why.

Cassia stepped forward, planting her boot firmly on the edge of the cleaning cloth while Mira worked.

It was a test. Mira could not pull the fabric free without tugging against the future Luna’s foot. To resist would be public insolence. To beg would be total surrender.

The hall went quiet. Everyone waited for the wolfless girl to break.

Mira did not tug. She did not plead.

Instead, she simply released the trapped cloth. She picked up a fresh one from her pile and moved six inches to the left, continuing to clean a different stain as if nothing had happened.

It was a small refusal. No speech, no open rebellion. But Cassia noticed.

Mira could not win this room. She could not outrank them or outfight them. But she could refuse to give Cassia the exact shape of humiliation she demanded.

Nearby, the sparring match resumed with renewed intensity. Wood cracked against wood.

A warrior took a bad hit, a practice blade slicing across his shoulder. He hissed in pain.

At that exact moment, Cassia flinched.

And Mira felt a sharp, searing agony slice across her own shoulder. No one had touched her. There was no blade, no impact, no wound.

Beneath her uniform, the old pale scar on her back began to burn.

Cassia turned slowly. She looked at Mira, and for the first time, there was no smile on her face. Only a stark, silent warning.

Mira pressed a hand to her unbroken shoulder, her breath catching in her throat.

The pain was real.

But the wound was not hers.