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"Please just look at the evidence I actually provided instead of blindly following these lies," I choke out, the metallic taste of my own blood coating my tongue like toxic syrup.

My knees hit the jagged stone stage of the Moon Ascension Ceremony and the impact jars my teeth. The silver chains anchoring my wrists to the iron pillars bite deep into my raw skin. I look up at the sea of jeering faces. They are beautiful monsters in expensive tailored suits and silk gowns. They look at me with such rehearsed disgust that I almost laugh. Almost. The Alpha King is dead. His royal blood has stained the marble steps, and every single pair of eyes in this stadium is locked onto me like I am the center of some sick, twisted orbit.

"Don't pretend you were saving him, you pathetic little gutter rat," the Headmaster hisses, his voice amplified by the stadium speakers to a booming, soul-crushing volume.

He holds up a dossier of fake photographs. I see my own face photoshopped into blurry, dark corners of the crime scene. It is a masterpiece of deception. The crowd roars, a primal sound of pure hatred that vibrates through my sternum. I scan the front row. My heart does a stuttering skip when I spot Clara. My best friend. My roommate for three years. The girl who shared my last crust of bread when the dining hall staff refused to serve me. She is wearing a dress that costs more than my entire family's estate. She is not crying. She is looking at me with the cold, bored indifference of someone who has just cashed a very large check.

"Tell them the truth, Clara," I whisper, though the sound is swallowed by the howling wind and the jeering mob.

Clara steps up to the microphone, her posture perfect. She glances at me, and for one fleeting, devastating moment, our eyes lock. There is no regret in her gaze. There is only calculated ambition. She adjusts her diamond necklace, the stones catching the sickly red light of the Blood Moon. She smiles at the judges, a shy, practiced movement that makes the entire stadium quiet down in anticipation.

"Evelyn told me she hated the Alpha King for holding us back," Clara lies, her voice clear and steady. "She said he deserved to bleed out in the dirt just for existing."

The crowd erupts again. The sound is a physical force. People are throwing stones, insults, and rotten produce, but I barely feel the impact. I am staring at the three Alpha heirs standing behind the judges. Jayson Ashford. His face is a mask of marble, his blue eyes as empty as a vacuum. He doesn't even look at me. He is looking at his reflection in the glass of his tablet. Simon Ricafort is pacing behind him, his fists clenched, his jaw set in a display of performative rage that makes me want to scream at the absurdity of it all. Then there is Rafael Blackvale. He is leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He is the only one who looks bored. He looks like a man who knows this is all a game and he is simply waiting for the final score.

"I didn't do it!" I scream, the words tearing through my throat.

The Headmaster turns to the crowd, his arms raised like a conductor leading a symphony of doom. "The Omega Assassin has spoken her final pathetic words. Justice will be served tonight."

He nods to the executioner, a hulking man in a leather hood who steps out from the shadows. The blade he carries is ancient, etched with runes that hum with a low, vibrating frequency. I feel the weight of my life pressing down on me. I think about the three years of starvation, the beatings, the constant degradation. I think about the times I walked on broken glass just to keep the academy hallways clean for these pampered, entitled creatures. And for what? So I could die on a stage for a crime I didn't even commit.

"Jayson, please," I call out, my voice cracking. "You know I couldn't have gotten past the security wards. You know this is a setup."

Jayson finally turns his head. He looks at me for a fraction of a second, his expression showing nothing but detached amusement. He leans over to whisper something to Simon, and they both laugh. A cold, hollow sound that rings in my ears louder than the thunder rolling in from the mountains. They aren't just letting me die. They are enjoying the show. They are the audience for my funeral.

"Rafael, you were there!" I shout, turning my head toward him as the executioner raises his weapon. "You saw me in the library when the alarm went off!"

Rafael moves. He steps off the platform, his eyes finally meeting mine. There is a spark of something sharp and unreadable in his gaze. It is not pity. It is not even anger. It is curiosity. He looks at me like he is reading a book and he is disappointed in the ending. He doesn't say a word. He just turns his back and walks toward the exit. He doesn't care. None of them do. They are the wolves, and I am just the sheep they decided to slaughter for the sport of it.

The executioner stands over me. I smell the ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of the blade. I look up at the Blood Moon, the crimson orb glowing like an angry eye in the night sky. The pain is starting to fade into a numb, surreal detachment. I see my own life flashing before me, not in a grand cinematic sweep, but in tiny, pathetic fragments. A cold dorm room. A pile of laundry. A professor laughing while he failed my exam. The betrayal of a friend. The indifference of an Alpha.

"Wait," I gasp, my lungs burning.

The blade swings. It is quick. It is efficient. It is everything they promised me I would never be. I feel the cold steel bite into my neck, the world rushing away from me in a dizzying blur of red and shadow. I hit the floor, the stone biting into my cheek. The last thing I hear is the sound of the crowd cheering, a deafening wave of triumph that washes over me like a freezing tide. My vision starts to tunnel, the edges of the world turning to pitch black.

"Regret is for people who think they had a choice," the Headmaster mutters, stepping over my dying body to address the crowd.

I feel my heart stuttering, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. I look at my hands. They are stained with my own blood. I look at the platform. The blood is spreading, a dark, Rorschach stain that looks suspiciously like a map. I think about the future I will never have. I think about the power I never realized I held in my own veins. I think about the lies they told and the secrets they kept buried in the foundations of this cursed academy. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel like an Omega. I don't feel like a victim. I feel like a fuse that is about to explode.

"If I could do it all again, I would burn this entire place to the ground before I let one of you touch me," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the roaring triumph of the mob.

The darkness closes in, thick and suffocating. I welcome it. I embrace the void with the desperation of a girl who has finally run out of tears. I feel the life slipping from my pores, the heat leaving my skin, the weight of my existence finally lifting. I am gone. I am nothing. I am just a ghost in the making, waiting for the wind to carry my ashes away.

"Check her pulse one more time to make sure this little rat is truly finished," a voice says from somewhere very, very far away.