The market was never silent. Even at dusk, when the sky burned with the dying light of the sun, its veins pulsed with voices.
Traders shouting prices, children shrieking as they ran between stalls, the guttural laughter of men who drank too early and too much.
The air was thick with smells: roasted meat, sweat, damp wood, and the sour tang of rotting fruit. The cobblestones beneath me were stained with years of blood and wine, cracked and uneven, but worn smooth by countless feet.
I sat in my usual corner, half-hidden between a wall of stacked crates and the shadow of a butcher's stall. The noise of the market felt distant here, though the stares never were.
My hair, black and tangled, had not felt water in weeks; the rags I wore barely clung to my skin.
The iron still clamped round my ankles, its chain heavy and rusted, sang a song of disgrace with every movement.
Before me lay the little I could offer: two rabbits, a brace of pheasants, and the scraps of meat I had managed to hunt in the woods beyond the city.
I told myself I could survive if I sold them.
Survive—that was all I asked of the Moon now.
But no one came. They never did.
They knew who I was. They whispered it as they passed, spitting the word like it dirtied their tongues: monster. The girl who killed her parents. The Outcast of Lunava.
I lowered my head when a group of children stopped a few feet from me. Their laughter was sharp, cruel in its innocence. One boy picked up a rotting cabbage leaf and hurled it at my shoulder.
The smell of decay clung to me, but I did not move. If I had, they would only have thrown more. Better to remain still. Better to remain invisible.
Invisible. If only I truly were.
But I never escaped the memories. Even now, even in the middle of the clamour, I could hear them—the screams of that night. I had been seven, trembling, lost to something I could not name.
My tail had coiled round their throats, tighter and tighter, as if it moved of its own accord. My parents' eyes, wide with terror, had burned into me before the blood drowned everything. Flesh torn, bones broken, their bodies shattered beyond recognition.
And me—covered in blood, lips painted with it, teeth sharp and dripping.
The Alpha of Lunava had given no trial, no words of comfort.
Only judgement. "Out."
The chains were struck upon me, and I was cast beyond the borders of my people.
Since then, I had walked markets both human and werewolf, begging for work, surviving as best I could. I had carried timber until my hands bled, mended fishing nets by moonlight, tended to the sick in exchange for nothing but a stale crust of bread.
And still, I was nothing but the monster child of Lunava.
A sudden kick scattered my little pile of game across the stones. Feathers burst, bloodied meat rolled through the dirt.
My breath caught as I looked up. A boy stood over my ruined stall, his face twisted with cruel delight. I did not move to stop him. I did not know how.
"Stay away from her!" his father barked as he strode over, yanking the child back by the arm. His eyes found mine, cold and venomous. "You filthy thing."
My fingers trembled in my lap, but I said nothing.
Words would not change what I was.
And then—it happened.
The market stilled. The cries of the traders, the clatter of iron, the stink of the crowd—everything fell into silence, as if the world itself held its breath.
I raised my eyes towards the northern gate.
Riders had entered. Five banners, five figures, unmistakable in their bearing.
The Alphas.
At their head I saw Erik of Frostand, broad as an ice-bound mountain, his hair white as the snows he ruled.
Beside him rode Ignar of Korgar, his arms bare and scarred, the very image of war.
A shadow cloaked the third, Elysia of Nyxian, her presence sharp and dangerous, as if she carried daggers not only at her belt but in her very smile.
And then—I saw him.
Soren of Moonior. The heir of the pack that once called mine its closest ally. His people worshipped the Moon's light—fierce, loyal, unyielding—while my own pack, Lunava, had followed the Moon's peace and stillness.
Once, we had stood as kin beneath Her gaze. Now I crouched in chains, unseen and unwanted.
Soren's gaze swept the market, clear and steady, his presence like a blade honed by light.
His long hair flowed behind him, a silken cascade of silver, as if the very Moon had woven it. His posture was as unwavering as a mountain, calm and composed, yet beneath that calmness lay a quiet ferocity, the kind born from battles and leadership.
He was young, but the fire in his eyes gave him an air of wisdom beyond his years—clear, unwavering, and certain.
His beauty was striking, not delicate but strong, like the tempered edge of a sword. His face carried the sharp angles of someone born to command, and even in the midst of the bustling crowd, there was a stillness about him that seemed to draw the world into focus, as though time itself paused in his presence.
The last figure rode in silence: Harkin of Lunava, the Alpha of my own pack. His name burned in my chest, but I dared not speak it, not even in my thoughts. His shadow was the shadow of my exile. The weight of his presence pressed down on me like a storm cloud, heavy with the memories of his judgement.
The crowd bowed their heads, some out of respect, some out of fear.
As for me—I drew my knees tighter, pressing myself into the corner, praying their eyes would pass over me like I was no more than dust.