10

Charollet barely touched the food brought to her quarters.

The tray sat by the door. Dry meat, a crust of bread, and the same bland broth she was given every evening. The metal had long since lost its heat, and the smell turned her stomach. Not from rot, but from the memory of what came with it muttered threats, locked doors, and the guards’ eyes trailing her with cruel delight.

It wasn’t about hunger anymore. Her starvation had taken on purpose.

This was control. Quiet, stubborn control in a world that had stripped her of everything else.

Her room, if it could be called that was little more than a storage space repurposed for punishment. The walls bore the marks of years: claw gouges, water damage, soot stains from a long-dead furnace. A single high window let in a stingy beam of moonlight that did little to chase away the damp. And yet, Charollet had begun to see the walls as hers.

Not safe. Never safe. But hers.

When the guards dropped the tray earlier that evening, they snorted. “Still too good for wolf scraps, mutt?”

She hadn’t replied. They liked it more when she did.

Now, hours later, the only sound was the hum of night insects beyond the window and the faint rustling of her fingers on the cold stone floor. In her hand was a thin splinter she had broken from the underside of the cot. Hidden for days. Waited for the quiet.

Her movements were slow but deliberate. She carved lines into the dusty stone. Softly, over and over, until shapes emerged half-moons, spirals, ancient curves her conscious mind didn’t recognize. But her hand moved with purpose, like it was remembering something her memory could not.

She paused, staring at the nearly invisible symbols in the gloom.

“Mia would’ve laughed at this,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. “She always said I was born half-witch, half-wolf.”

She smiled. Not from joy, but from grief.

Mia.

The last person who had seen her as anything more than a burden. The rogue warrior with copper eyes and a sharp tongue. Rejected by her mate and hardened by betrayal, yet somehow still soft enough to care.

Where was she now?

Had she believed the lies?

Had she heard what they said? That Charollet was no wolf. That she was a traitor. A spy. A freak.

“You’re not even a wolf. You’re a mistake.”

Kade’s voice came back to her, not as a shout but as a whisper—cold and precise. She could still see the smirk on his lips, the flicker of fury behind his eyes when she had denied him.

The bruises he left were gone, but the echo of him lingered.

But lately, he had vanished.

No taunts. No threats.

Only silence.

She didn’t know if that made her safer or more afraid.

Elsewhere in the estate, whispers circled her name like vultures.

“She doesn’t eat,” a stablehand said as he polished reins. “But she doesn’t waste away either.”

“I saw her last night,” another whispered. “Her skin glowed. I swear. Like moonlight.”

“She’s cursed,” someone else muttered. “Or worse...blessed.”

Blessed. Cursed. Witch. Mistake. Mutt.

Each word added weight to the rumor. Charollet became legend without trying. The pack that had humiliated her now feared her quietly, in corners, behind drawn curtains.

They never said it to her face.

They didn’t dare.

Not anymore.

And Kade heard every word.

In his quarters, a glass shattered against stone.

The scout who had delivered the rumor flinched, but Kade didn’t apologize. He stood with his back to the door, chest heaving, fists clenched.

“Say that again,” he growled.

“I—I didn’t say I believed it,” the scout stammered. “Only that it’s spreading. They say she’s not wolf, not human either. Something in between.”

Kade turned.

The firelight lit the edges of his fury the hard line of his jaw, the tightness in his eyes.

“She’s not a threat,” he said. “She’s nothing.”

But he knew it wasn’t true.

He had watched her too closely to believe that lie. There was something in the way she looked back at him. Not fear. Not entirely. Something deeper. Challenge, maybe. Or understanding.

He hated it.

Hated how her scent had burned into his memory. Crushed flowers and ash. Like something holy had fallen into fire.

He had seen her trembling under his hand, yes. But he had also seen her stillness—how she refused to cry. How she bled but didn’t break. How she stood among wolves and didn’t flinch.

And then there was the mark.

The first night she was punished, dragged through dirt and chains, her shoulder had been exposed, just for a moment.

Not a scar.

Not a wound.

A crest.

The design was unlike any known to the modern packs. A crescent moon nested in a set of wings, surrounded by ancient symbols.

It wasn’t tribal.

It was royal.

And it burned in his memory like a brand.

Charollet didn’t sleep that night.

She sat in the corner, legs pulled tight to her chest, watching the spiral she had drawn.

Her mind drifted between memories of cold nights with Viktor wrapping her in furs, of Mia wiping mud from her cheek and saying, “You’re not broken. Just lost.”

She could still feel the coldness of that day, when everything changed.

The circle of rogues spitting on her as she was dragged through the camp.

The laughter.

The betrayal.

Now, she couldn’t cry for them. Not anymore.

They weren’t hers.

They never were.

She had started to understand something in the stillness.

Her wolf wasn’t gone.

She had been listening all this time.

It was the world that was too loud to hear her.

Now, in this silence, she felt it a flicker in her chest, faint as a candle’s breath. Not a voice, not yet. But presence.

Waiting.

Watching.

The symbols on the floor seemed to shimmer faintly in the moonlight. And when she touched one, her finger tingled like she’d dipped it in electricity.

She gasped and snatched her hand back.

The mark on her shoulder pulsed.

It had never done that before.

What was she?

Who was she?

The questions had lived in her since she was old enough to know the difference between rogues and real packs. Between wolves and monsters.

But the answers were no longer something she feared.

They were something she was ready for.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cold stone wall.

Outside, the moon shifted behind a cloud.

And somewhere in the distance, Kade’s wolf howled.

The howl shattered the quiet like a scream through still water.

Charollet’s eyes snapped open. Her breath caught.

That sound.

It wasn’t like the other wolves. Kade’s wolf didn’t howl with longing or kinship. His sound was a blade, a warning.

A storm was coming.

Footsteps echoed in the hall a moment later. Heavy, controlled. Someone who didn’t need to run to show power. The door creaked, its rusted hinges groaning with effort.

Charollet didn’t move from her corner.

Kade stood in the doorway, framed in moonlight, his black coat unbuttoned at the throat. His jaw was shadowed, his hair damp from the mist outside. For a moment, he said nothing—just stared.

His eyes roamed the room like a predator inspecting his own trap. The scratched floors, the untouched tray, the bruises fading from her wrists.

And then, his gaze landed on the symbols.

He stepped inside.

Charollet didn’t flinch. She met his eyes.

Something unreadable flickered across his face.

He crouched near the markings, his hand hovering just above the spirals. His fingertips didn’t touch—but they trembled, slightly.

“These…” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “Where did you learn these?”

“I didn’t,” she said simply.

He glanced at her. “Then who?”

Charollet leaned her head back against the wall, refusing to answer. Her silence felt heavier than words.

Kade stood abruptly. “You think not answering makes you stronger?”

“No,” she replied. “Just harder to manipulate.”

His face hardened. “You think I’m trying to manipulate you?”

“I think you don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

The tension in the air turned razor-sharp.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped forward, slow and measured, until he stood over her. The edge of his coat brushed her knee.

“You’ve stopped crying,” he said, almost thoughtfully.

Charollet looked up at him. “Would it satisfy you more if I started again?”

He didn’t answer.

His hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist.

She waited for the blow.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, he turned sharply and paced to the far wall. His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. But cracking at the edges.

“They say your eyes turned silver last night.”

Charollet’s breath caught.

“They said you glowed. They said you didn’t look like a wolf at all.”

She didn’t respond. There was no point denying it.

He turned toward her again, his expression unreadable. “What are you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, the honesty of it surprising even herself.

“Liar.”

“I’m not,” she said calmly. “I’ve asked myself that every day since my wolf vanished. Since the rogues turned on me. Since you locked me in here like I was poison.”

“You are poison,” he snapped, stepping forward. “You infect everything. My thoughts. My pack. You were supposed to break.”

She met his gaze evenly. “And yet here I am.”

Kade’s fury trembled just under the surface.

He didn’t understand it.

She should’ve shattered under the weight of what he’d done. She should’ve begged, pleaded, screamed for mercy like others before her. He had crushed betas with less. Rogues had bled at his feet.

But not her.

Even now, thin, bruised, silenced by isolation; she sat like a fallen queen.

Wounded, but watching.

That terrified him more than any scream.

The next morning, Charollet was pulled from her cell by two guards.

No words.

Just shackles. Rough grips.

They didn’t take her to the central hall. Not the punishment yard. Instead, they turned toward the east wing—the forgotten corridor once reserved for elders before the war.

It smelled of old fire and dust.

At the end of the hall, the double doors opened into a wide chamber she hadn’t seen before. Candles burned low in heavy sconces. Wolf pelts adorned the floor. And at the center, a low pool shimmered with dark water.

Kade stood beside it, flanked by Matthias and a healer with a hood.

“Bring her forward,” Kade ordered.

The guards shoved her, and she stumbled but stayed on her feet.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice steady.

Kade didn’t look at her directly. “A test.”

Matthias spoke instead. “The old ways speak of the Lunar Wells. Sacred pools used by the royal bloodlines to test the soul. If you’re lying… if you’re hiding something, the water will reveal it.”

Charollet’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t know who I am.”

“Then let’s find out,” Kade said, finally looking at her.

The healer stepped forward with a small dagger.

Charollet tensed. “No.”

“It’s only a drop,” the healer said.

She didn’t resist when they sliced the pad of her finger.

A single bead of blood fell into the water.

The reaction was instant.

The surface shimmered like silver lightning had struck it. The candles flickered, then surged in brightness. The water glowed. Not red, not gold, but moonlight.

Kade took an involuntary step back.

The healer whispered, “It’s not possible…”

“What?” Matthias demanded.

The healer turned slowly. “She’s not wolf-born… but neither is she human.”

Kade’s eyes narrowed. “Then what?”

The healer looked at Charollet with something between awe and fear.

“She’s Lunar-marked.”

Silence.

Matthias’s face twisted. “A myth.”

The healer shook her head. “There were records. Before the Collapse. Of those touched by the Moon directly. Not born of Alpha or pack, but of something older. They don’t shift like us. They don’t break like us. And they carry the old blood.”

Kade stared at the pool, then at Charollet.

The symbols on her skin. The birthmark. The dreams.

He hadn’t imagined it.

Charollet was something else.

Something older.

Something dangerous.

They returned her to her room, but it felt different now. The door wasn’t slammed. No guards mocked her.

And Kade didn’t return that night.

He didn’t need to.

She knew now.

The tide had shifted.

She sat on her cot, her finger wrapped in cloth, watching the spiral on the floor glow faintly where her blood had dripped earlier.

The mark on her shoulder tingled.

She wasn’t a rogue.

She wasn’t broken.

She was becoming.

 

The mark on her shoulder hadn’t stopped burning since the well.

At night, Charollet would trace her fingers over it, not to soothe it, but to remind herself it was real. That she was real. More than the scars on her wrists. More than the bruises that lined her hips from where the chains bit into bone.

This wasn’t a scar. It was something else.

A reminder.

But of what, she still didn’t know.

The guards no longer shoved her when they brought food. One even glanced at the floor before setting the tray down. Respect? Fear? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t hungry.

The world outside her quarters felt quieter. Tense. Like the very walls had taken a breath and were waiting to exhale.

Even the wind outside the stone tower had changed. Where it once howled like a beast in mourning, it now whispered. Muttered. As if it knew her name.

And yet, Charollet didn’t feel stronger.

Not yet.

She felt like she was holding a cracked mirror and each shard held a version of herself she didn’t recognize. One was the broken prisoner. Another was the girl who used to laugh beside Mia under rain-drenched trees. Another... was something darker. Something still waking.

It unnerved her.

But she didn’t run from it.

She couldn’t afford to.

Kade didn’t return until the third night.

The candlelight caught only part of his face as he entered, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed, posture unreadable. He didn’t speak right away. Just closed the door behind him and leaned against it like he wasn’t sure if he was keeping her in or himself out.

Charollet sat on the edge of the cot, her legs tucked beneath her. Her posture mirrored calm, but her heart drummed like war in her chest.

He watched her. Like she was something he hadn’t decided whether to kill or protect.

“I should have ended this long ago,” Kade said finally, voice low and sharp as a blade. “You’ve caused chaos. Division. Even now after the well you sit there like you’re untouchable.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Is that what you think I am? Untouchable?”

“No,” he growled, pushing off the door. “I think you’re cursed.”

She didn’t respond. There was no point arguing with a man whose rage was a mask for confusion.

He stepped closer. The room shrank.

“You have no wolf. You bleed silver into sacred water. And somehow, the elders won’t touch you. You know what they told me? They said wait.”

Charollet’s throat tightened. “Wait for what?”

Kade’s expression cracked but only for a second, but she saw it. Doubt. Fear. Maybe even awe.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

It was the first honest thing he’d said to her in weeks.

He stepped closer again. Too close. His scent enveloped her smoke, pine, something darker.

She didn’t move back.

“You were meant to serve, Charollet. To obey. That was all I asked.”

She looked at him, calm. “You didn’t ask. You took.”

Kade’s breath hitched.

“I could still break you,” he said.

“You already tried.”

He looked at her for a long time. Then, without another word, he turned and left.

The door didn’t slam.

That terrified her more than anything.

Whispers spread faster now.

In the kitchens.

In the guard corridors.

“She’s not a wolf, but she’s not prey.”

“They say she walked into the well and it glowed.”

“The Alpha visits her in silence. No screams. No chains. Just looks.”

It didn’t matter that she was still locked away.

She could feel it.

They feared her now. Not because of what she’d done, but because of what she might become.

Still, not everyone was convinced.

A week later, they tried again.

This time, Kade didn’t come.

Matthias entered the cell with two guards and a collar.

“You’re being reassigned,” he said coldly.

“To where?” she asked.

“The garden wing. The nobles are arriving for the next council. You’ll serve there.”

Charollet narrowed her eyes. “Serve. Or perform?”

Matthias’s jaw ticked. “Whatever they wish.”

They dragged her out into the cold hallway.

No makeup. No robe. Just a grey servant’s dress that hung off her shoulders and boots a size too large.

Still, she walked with her chin high.

In the grand halls of the east wing, the council members had already begun to gather. The elite. The influential. Betas from surrounding packs and even a few rogues dressed in civilized skins. All pretending peace.

As Charollet was pushed forward with a tray of drinks, she could feel the eyes on her.

Some recognized her.

Some didn’t.

But all of them looked at her the same way.

Like she was something that shouldn’t exist.

She didn’t stumble. Didn’t spill. Not even when someone “accidentally” bumped her from behind.

A wine glass shattered at her feet. She knelt, picked up the shards, and moved on.

One noble, slim, smirking, foreign caught her by the wrist when she passed. His grip tightened until the bones shifted.

“This her?” he asked someone behind him. “The infamous broken one?”

Charollet met his eyes, blank. “I am many things. But I am not broken.”

The noble leaned close, eyes flicking to her collar. “Then why are you on your knees?”

She didn’t answer. He released her eventually.

But his words stayed.

Not because they hurt.

But because she realized...he was right.

She was still kneeling.

Still bound.

Still waiting.

And it was time that ended.

That night, Charollet sat in the corner of her room, the tray untouched beside her. She stared at her reflection in a shard of metal polished enough to mimic a mirror.

Her skin had grown paler.

Her eyes? not storm-grey anymore.

They shimmered faintly. Almost silver.

But what caught her attention most wasn’t her eyes.

It was the mark on her shoulder.

It was glowing.

Only faintly.

But it pulsed. As if answering something.

Calling something.

She didn’t understand it.

Not yet.

But she would.

Eventually.