**Trigger Warning **
The great hall of the Nightwalker Pack glittered with the warmth of firelight and the smell of roasted venison. Warriors filled the long oak tables, laughter booming, mugs slamming, voices rising in drunken celebration.
Lyra moved silently through them like a shadow, her small figure bent slightly forward as she carried a heavy jug of wine. The jug trembled in her hands, not from its weight but from the way every gaze seemed to linger on her with open mockery. Silver hair. Golden eyes. The cursed child of a slave.
She kept her eyes down. That was safer. She had learned long ago that if she dared meet their stares, their cruelty sharpened tenfold.
"Faster, slave!" A warrior barked as she poured into his mug. The wine sloshed and spilled onto the table, and laughter erupted. Lyra swallowed hard, whispered an apology, and hurried to the next.
At the far end of the table sat Alpha Gideon Nightwalker—her father.
Her hands trembled harder the closer she came. He lounged in his carved chair like a king, a thick mane of dark hair spilling over his broad shoulders. His sharp jaw was shadowed by stubble, his lips curved into a cruel smile as he reached lazily for a meat bone and tore into it.
His presence consumed the room. Men laughed louder to please him, women leaned closer, desperate for his approval. Gideon thrived on it.
And yet—he did not look at her.
Not once.
Not even when she set her shaking hands against the rim of his goblet and carefully tipped the jug to pour.
The scent of wine mixed with the stench of his authority, thick and suffocating. Lyra fought to steady her hand, but her nerves betrayed her. A single crimson drop slipped over the side of the cup, staining the carved wood of his table.
The hall fell silent.
It was always like this: the smallest mistake, and every eye turned toward her as though she had committed some unforgivable crime.
Slowly, Gideon raised his head. His eyes, as dark as a storm, fixed on her at last. Lyra's chest tightened, and though she knew better, a small flicker of hope sparked inside her—perhaps this time he would see her.
"Clumsy," Gideon said. His voice carried across the entire hall. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through every sound. "Just like your whore mother."
Laughter burst out again, cruel and unrestrained.
Lyra's throat burned. She bowed her head lower, whispering, "Forgive me, Alpha."
Gideon leaned back in his chair, swirling the goblet before drinking. His lip curled as if the taste had soured. "Why is she still here? Why do I allow this stain to pollute my sight?" He gestured lazily toward her, addressing the crowd more than her. "Even death couldn't purge the shame that woman left me. And now this thing—" his gaze raked over her with disgust—"wanders my hall, reminding me of it."
Her chest squeezed. She kept her eyes on the floor, willing the tears not to fall. Crying only ever made it worse.
A warrior jeered, "Perhaps she should be fed to the dogs, Alpha!"
Another added, "No, no—keep her. She's amusing. Watching her trip over herself is worth the wine she spills."
The roar of laughter struck her like blows.
Gideon smirked, enjoying the spectacle. "Enough," he said finally, though his tone was more amused than stern. "Go on, girl. Keep serving. At least make yourself useful if you cannot be anything else."
Lyra bowed her head so low her hair brushed the floor, then backed away, clutching the jug to her chest.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Every step away from Gideon felt like stumbling out of a battlefield alive.
But the wound inside her chest deepened.
He hadn't seen her. Not as a daughter. Not as anything but a mistake carved into flesh.
---
Hours later, when the feast ended, Lyra carried the scraps and half-finished plates into the kitchen. The servants muttered about her under their breath, too bold now that the hall was empty.
"She's cursed."
"Should've died with her mother."
Lyra kept silent, shoulders tight, moving quickly until the last dish was scrubbed and the last mess swept. Her arms ached. Her back screamed from bending and carrying. But she would not complain. Complaints were for those who had someone to listen.
By the time she slipped out the servant's door into the cool night air, the moon was high.
The pack's territory stretched around her—dense forests, tall pines, the distant sound of wolves howling. The sound should have been beautiful, but to Lyra, it was a reminder.
She had never shifted.
Not once.
And so every howl was a chorus she could never join.
Her feet carried her beyond the pack's houses, down the dirt path she knew well. Out where the shadows grew darker and the voices of the pack faded.
There, at the edge of the forest, stood a small, unmarked grave.
Her mother's grave.
Lyra sank to her knees in front of it, her body trembling. She pressed her hands against the cold earth, eyes burning as memories flooded her.
Her mother's silver hair, softer than silk. Her mother's golden eyes, warm despite the sorrow. The lullabies whispered at night when Lyra was small, songs that made her feel safe.
And then—her mother's screams. The way the pack had dragged her into the square, accusing her of seducing the Alpha with witchcraft. Lyra had been five, too small to fight, too weak to understand why her mother was on her knees begging for her child.
She had watched them kill her.
Watched and done nothing.
"I'm sorry," Lyra whispered now, tears spilling at last. Her voice cracked, breaking under the weight of years of silence. "I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't anything enough. I still… I still can't be."
The earth beneath her hands was damp with dew—or was it her tears? She couldn't tell.
"I wish you were here. Just once more. I wish you could hold me, tell me I'm not—" her throat closed, the word choking her—"nothing."
The night air stirred. A soft breeze brushed her hair, cool against her wet cheeks.
Lyra closed her eyes, imagining it was her mother's touch.
And for the briefest moment—only a heartbeat—something shimmered beneath her palms. The soil pulsed faintly, like a vein of light hidden deep below, then vanished before she could notice.
She only felt a sudden warmth spread through her chest, easing her sobs.
She stayed there long into the night, whispering to the earth, until exhaustion dragged her back toward the packhouse.
Tomorrow, she knew, her suffering would continue.
But tonight, under the silent gaze of the moon and the memory of her mother, she allowed herself to cry.
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