The water in the washtub had long since turned murky.
Lyra knelt on the cold stone floor, her knees raw against the uneven surface, sleeves rolled past her elbows. A dozen gowns lay heaped around her like dead things, their silks and velvets sagging with soap and sweat. She scrubbed one collar, fingers red from the lye, until her skin burned more than the fabric itself. The scent of perfume and dust clung stubbornly, as if the dresses themselves resisted being touched by her hands.
Above her, Leona lounged on a carved bench, posture perfect, as though she were seated on a throne. Her long golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, brushed and oiled until not a strand dared rebel. The deep green of her gown hugged her body, embroidered with silver that caught the light with every faint movement.
"Careful," Leona said lazily, lifting a jeweled brooch between two manicured fingers. "That one was imported from the Eastern Isles. If you tear it, you'll wish you'd drowned yourself in that filthy bucket."
Lyra bit her tongue. Words of defiance would only feed her sister's amusement. She scrubbed harder, lowering her head so that the strands of her tangled black hair fell forward, hiding her expression.
She remembered once — years ago, when they were both younger — she had longed to be like Leona. To wear gowns instead of rags, to walk freely through the packhouse instead of being hidden in corners, to have eyes follow her with admiration instead of disdain. But envy had curdled into something else over time.
Now, as her sister's laughter rippled softly in the chamber, envy bled into grief.
A splash of cold water dragged her back. Leona had dipped her jeweled fingers into the bucket and flicked droplets onto Lyra's face.
"Look at you," she murmured, voice sweet but laced with venom. "Bent like a servant. You were born of the same blood as I, yet you crawl. Do you ever wonder why?"
Lyra's hands stilled on the fabric.
Her heart ached with the familiar answer. Because she was cursed. Because her birth had been a mistake. Because the pack had decided she was not worthy of being treated as kin.
She didn't lift her head. Silence was her only defense.
But silence never protected her for long.
"Ah," Leona said softly, tilting her head, "you don't wonder. You know." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "You were never meant to be loved. Never meant to be chosen. You'll die here, with your hands raw and your soul chained."
Something in Lyra's chest twisted sharply.
Her hand jerked as she scrubbed, and the fine point of the brooch caught her skin. A sting burst across her finger, sharp and sudden. Blood welled up, bright red against pale flesh.
She gasped quietly, instinctively pulling her hand back.
Leona's eyes flashed with delight. She rose from her seat in one smooth motion and seized Lyra's wrist, holding her hand up to the dim light. The thin line of blood gleamed.
"Filthy," she hissed. Then, with a shove, she forced Lyra's hand — wound and all — back into the dark water. The sting flared tenfold as the lye seeped into the cut. Lyra bit down on a cry, her teeth sinking into her lip until she tasted copper.
Leona laughed softly, the sound silkier than the gowns strewn about. "Yes. That's what you are. Filthy water, filthy hands, filthy heart. Do you know what the Alpha says about you, little sister?" She bent close, her perfume sickly sweet, masking the stench of soap and blood. "That you'll never be worthy of a mate. That no wolf would soil himself touching you."
The words sliced sharper than any brooch.
Lyra's chest heaved. She wanted to scream, to claw, to weep, to beg — but she did none of these things. She simply let the cold water cover her wound, staring at the distorted reflection of her face rippling on its surface.
Her golden eyes glimmered faintly back at her, dull with exhaustion but alive.
A strange calmness stole through her, quiet and steady, like a whisper beneath the roar of her sister's cruelty. *No one may love me. No one may choose me. But still… I remain.*
She pressed the fabric against the washboard again, ignoring the sting of her cut, ignoring the laughter that trailed from Leona's lips.
The gown came clean under her hands.
When Leona saw that no tears came, no screams escaped, she grew restless. She lingered only a few minutes longer before flouncing toward the door, skirts sweeping over the stone like arrogant waves.
At the threshold, she paused. "Remember, Lyra," she said, turning her head slightly, profile sharp as a blade. "No matter how hard you scrub, the dirt is inside you. You'll never wash it away."
Then she was gone.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Lyra's fingers trembled as she wrung the last gown, the wound throbbing, her body aching from crouching too long. But within the pain there was something else. A kernel. A spark she didn't yet understand.
Her sister's words were poison, meant to break her. But in the echo of that poison, Lyra felt something rise. Not anger — not yet. But a strange, stubborn strength, like roots digging deeper into soil no matter how often they were trampled.
She would never speak it aloud.
But in her silence, in the hidden chambers of her heart, Lyra whispered back to her sister's scorn:
*Perhaps I will never be loved. Perhaps I will never be chosen. But I will not remain broken.*
And though no one else could see it, a flicker of defiance gleamed in her golden eyes, brighter than the torchlight in the lonely chamber.