Zoey felt her feet numb as she walked past the iron gates into the Alpha's residence, her left wrist sore from rubbing with her right wrist. The sky was painted with a pretty blue and white color. But for some reason it was so dull to her, the sun was bright but she felt the last vestiges of the sun slipping behind the distant forest. As the gates slammed shut behind her, she knew she was truly a prisoner now, even if no one said it aloud.
A she-wolf, tall and scarred, stood waiting. Her pale green eyes scanned Zoey with disinterest and she said as she rolled her eyes. "You the traitor's daughter?"
Zoey didn't answer.
"Fine. Come."
She was led into a narrow corridor lined with stone. The scent of sweat and worn leather clung to the air. This was the heart of the female warriors' quarters—a place of strength, pride, and unwavering loyalty to the Alpha.
The door creaked open, revealing a dormitory lined with bunks. There were whispers before she even stepped inside. Several pairs of eyes turned to her—some curious, most hostile. A few bared their teeth; others rolled their eyes and returned to polishing blades or tightening boots or doing whatever they were doing.
"That's her," someone muttered. "The traitor's brat."
"And she's out there beating up other girls."
"They should've exiled her with the other traitors. As if her mother not marrying our kind wasn't enough betrayal. She failed to protect us."
"She doesn't belong here."
Zoey stood stiffly at the doorway. She wouldn't let them see her flinch.
The scarred she-wolf spoke again. "You sleep here. That bunk's empty. Don't cause trouble."
She turned and walked away, leaving Zoey alone in a room full of enemies.
Zoey approached the bunk with careful steps. A girl with copper-toned hair glanced at her, not with hatred but something akin to pity. "Hey," she offered, her voice low. "Don't let them get to you. They just... need someone to hate."
Zoey nodded but said nothing.
Two others, lean and muscular with scars on their cheeks, snickered. "Hope you're not expecting a warm welcome," one of them said. "We don't break bread with traitors."
That word again. Traitor. Her father's ghost clung to it like a shadow she couldn't shake.
The first few days were a blur of pain and humiliation.
They made her run until her lungs burned, spar until her knuckles bled, and clean the latrines while the others laughed. Any sign she showed of rebelling was met with scorn, mockery, or worse.
Still, Zoey bore it in silence. She had been hated all her life, had grown on whispers and sideways glances. But she had never been alone like this. Truly alone.
She always has her brother by her.
Only a girl named Freya and a girl named Marnie—soft-spoken and missing two fingers from a battle years ago—treated her like a person.
"You don't have to prove anything to them," Marnie whispered one night as they sat outside the barracks under the cold moon. "But don't give them a reason to attack. They're just waiting for it."
But the silence only fueled the fire.
She didn't open up to people easily anymore because she felt a little too hurt.
The breaking point came during weapons training.
Zoey was paired with Dalia, the taller girl with the scarred face, known for her wild temper. Their instructor barked orders, and the two circled, wooden swords in hand.
Dalia sneered. "Let's see if treason runs in your blood."
Zoey didn't reply, keeping her eyes locked.
Dalia struck first—hard and fast. Zoey parried, her arms screaming under the weight of each blow. They danced across the training ring, a fury of limbs and splinters.
Then Dalia tripped her. Zoey hit the ground hard. The wind burst from her lungs.
The instructor moved to intervene, but Dalia raised her sword again and spat. "Your father deserved to die."
Zoey saw red. She kicked upward, knocking Dalia off balance, and leapt to her feet.
She didn't hold back.
She struck once, twice—until Dalia was on the floor, groaning, her lip split and nose bloodied.
Gasps rang out.
"ENOUGH!" the instructor shouted. But she kept going on and on and on until Dalia was in a critical condition.
The instructor screamed "ENOUGH" again and again. But it was too late.
That night, they came for her.
Four warriors dragged her from her bed. They didn't speak as they beat her—swift and silent. Blows to the ribs, back, jaw. Precision pain.
She didn't cry out.
When it was over, she lay curled on the cold stone floor, blood pooling at her lip.
Then they brought someone else in.
Her brother.
Ryan was barely conscious, dragged by his collar, his face bruised and lip split.
"This is your first and last warning," said a high-ranked warrior, voice like steel. "Act up again, and next time he won't walk out of here."
Zoey reached for Ryan with trembling fingers, but they pulled him back.
She watched as they dragged him away, her chest heaving with silent screams.
The next day, she didn't speak. Didn't eat. Didn't train.
She stood in the courtyard as rain poured from the sky, soaking her to the bone. Freya tried to pull her inside, but she didn't move.
"He's not safe here," Zoey whispered.
"None of us are," Freya said, standing beside her.
By evening a courier arrived.
He was soaked and shivering, he was a neutral messenger.
He handed the Alpha's assistant a scroll bound in dark red wax. The assistant read it, his expression unreadable.
Word spread fast.
The vampires had responded.
The treaty had been reviewed.
They found it... worthy.
A hushed silence fell over the camp.
And in the shadows of the barracks, Zoey raised her head
slowly.
Because that message—that single, unexpected response—meant the war wasn't over.
It was only just beginning.