The iron chains rattled softly as Lyra moved, the sound echoing in the cold stone chamber. She wasn't shackled — not tonight — but the chains lay scattered across the floor, reminders of punishments past. The faint glow of the moonlight spilled through the barred window, brushing her silver hair with a ghostly sheen.
She hated her hair.
The pack women whispered that it was cursed, that her mother's vampire blood had tainted her from the womb. They said the silver strands were unnatural, a beacon of shame. The golden eyes, too — eyes that seemed to burn even in the darkness. She had her mother's beauty, and in this pack, beauty was a sin when born from the wrong womb.
"Lyra!"
The sharp voice of Luna Mira cut through the silence. Lyra flinched, clutching the basket of laundry she had been folding. Her fingers trembled. No matter how careful she was, no matter how silent she made herself, Mira always found fault.
"Yes, Luna," Lyra whispered, lowering her head as she stepped out into the corridor.
Mira stood at the far end, her crimson gown trailing behind her like blood across the floor. The woman's beauty was cold and sharp, a blade meant to cut. Her lips curved into a cruel smile as she looked at Lyra.
"You're slow again. Do you think slaves are allowed to waste my time?"
"I–I'm sorry, Luna." Lyra bowed, her hair falling over her face like a curtain. She didn't dare meet Mira's eyes.
The slap came swift and merciless. Pain stung her cheek, forcing tears into her eyes. Lyra didn't cry out. She had learned long ago that sound only pleased Mira more.
"You should have died with your whore of a mother," Mira spat. "Instead, you pollute this house with your filth. Remember your place, girl. You are nothing."
"Yes, Luna."
The words were ashes in her mouth.
Mira's daughter, Leona, appeared then, her golden curls bouncing as she descended the staircase. Leona was everything Lyra was not — pampered, adored, praised for every breath she took. She sneered when she saw her.
"Still alive, rat? Father must enjoy watching you suffer."
Lyra lowered her gaze, her hands tightening around the basket. Silence was her shield.
Leona leaned close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You'll never be one of us. You're nothing more than a reminder of his lust. I'll make sure you stay in the dirt where you belong."
Lyra didn't reply. She didn't need to — Leona's laughter trailed behind her like poison as she left, satisfied by her silence.
---
That night, Lyra lay on the thin straw mattress in the corner of her chamber. Her cheek throbbed where Mira had struck her, but the pain was familiar. It was her companion, her constant. She traced the faint scars along her arms, memories of whips and claws.
Closing her eyes, she thought of her mother.
She barely remembered her face — soft, kind, always humming lullabies in the dead of night. Her mother's hands had been gentle, her voice a comfort. But Gideon, the Alpha, had never spared her a glance. When her mother had died, Lyra had become invisible to him. Not a daughter. Not blood. Just a slave wearing his name.
Her brothers had inherited his strength, his arrogance. One mocked her openly, the other ignored her existence. And Gideon himself… Lyra saw him only at gatherings, always surrounded by women, always drunk on wine and blood. To him, she was nothing but an inconvenience.
Lyra pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the faint flutter of her heart. She sometimes wondered why she was still alive. Perhaps the Moon Goddess had abandoned her. Perhaps she was cursed, as Mira claimed.
Yet sometimes, when she gazed at the moon, she felt something stir deep within her. A whisper. A shadow. A warmth she couldn't name. But it vanished before she could grasp it.
---
The next morning, Lyra was dragged to the courtyard. The pack had gathered, their voices rising in cruel laughter. Mira stood at the center, her hand resting on Leona's shoulder.
"This filthy slave dared to spill wine last night," Mira announced. "What should we do with her?"
"Whip her!" someone jeered.
"Make her crawl like the dog she is!" another shouted.
Lyra lowered her gaze, her heart pounding. She hadn't spilled the wine. She hadn't even been in the hall last night. But truth held no power here.
"On your knees," Mira ordered.
Lyra obeyed. The cold stones bit into her skin. The whip cracked in the air, the sound like thunder. She braced herself as pain lashed across her back. Once. Twice. Again.
The pack cheered.
Blood dripped down her spine, warm and sticky. Her vision blurred, but she clenched her jaw. She would not give them the satisfaction of her screams. She would endure. She always endured.
Somewhere above the jeers, she heard a child's voice whisper, "Why don't she fight back?"
Because she couldn't.
Because she was nothing but a slave.
---
That night, alone in her chamber, Lyra lay curled on her mattress. Her body ached, her wounds raw. The moonlight streamed through the bars once more, silver light dancing across her hair.
For a heartbeat, the shadows in the room seemed to shift, bending toward her. The chains on the floor rattled softly, though no hand had touched them. Her golden eyes flickered strangely, glowing for the briefest moment.
Lyra gasped, sitting upright.
The sensation vanished.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, her heart racing. She didn't understand what had just happened. Perhaps it was only her imagination, a trick of exhaustion.
Yet deep down, a whisper stirred again. A promise.
Youarenotnothing.