**TRIGGER WARNING**
The sun beat down mercilessly on the courtyard, baking the stone path until it shimmered with heat. Lyra's bare feet pressed against the uneven surface as she hauled a wooden bucket filled to the brim with water. The weight bit into her wrists, but she kept moving, small steps measured, silent, unnoticed.
The pack bustled around her — warriors sharpening blades, young wolves sparring, servants hurrying to and fro. Their laughter rang in the air, sharp and bright, and with every sound Lyra shrank deeper into herself.
She had been told to scrub the courtyard stones until they gleamed. Hours of kneeling left her palms raw, the water darkened with dirt and sweat. Each time she carried a fresh bucket, the warriors smirked as though the sight of her toiling fed their amusement.
"Move faster, girl," one barked as she passed, his voice carrying across the yard.
Lyra lowered her head. "Yes, sir."
Her pace quickened. Her thin frame wobbled beneath the weight. The bucket sloshed, spilling water over her wrists, drenching her threadbare dress. She stumbled slightly on a loose stone, the water threatening to tip.
That was when it came.
A hand, broad and merciless, struck her across the back of the shoulder. The blow sent her staggering forward, the bucket crashing to the stones with a loud crack. Water spilled everywhere, soaking the ground in a spreading pool.
"You worthless thing!" the warrior snarled. His name was Kael — broad-shouldered, scar across his chin, his wolf aura radiating dominance. "Can't even carry a bucket without failing?"
Lyra scrambled to gather the bucket, her breath caught in her throat. But Kael's boot came down hard, pinning it to the ground.
She froze.
And then his hand lashed out again, this time across her cheek. The impact sent her sprawling. Her temple cracked against the sharp edge of a stone, and a thin line of blood trickled down.
The courtyard stilled.
Her blood — dark crimson — dripped onto the pale stones, seeping into the cracks. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the soft patter of liquid against rock.
Then came the whispers.
"Do you smell that?" one voice murmured.
Another, sharper: "Her blood… it's smell strange from before."
Lyra, dazed, pressed her trembling fingers to the wound. Her breath came shallow, chest tightening as she caught fragments of their words.
"It's not like human blood—"
"Too sharp, too… rich—"
"What is she?"
Her stomach clenched. The words twisted inside her like knives. She wasn't supposed to be noticed. She wasn't supposed to be *different*. All her life she had been taught she was nothing. Weak. Wolfless. Powerless. Yet now, their eyes lingered on her with something other than contempt. Curiosity. Unease.
Kael's nose wrinkled as though the scent offended him. He sneered, reaching for her as if to drag her away. "Abomination—"
But before his hand could close on her arm, a growl split the air.
The Alpha's youngest son.
Theodore.
He strode across the courtyard like a storm, his dark hair catching the light, his emerald eyes burning with fury. The warriors fell silent, their postures straightening instinctively. His presence filled the air — heavy, commanding, dangerous.
"What is this?" Theodore's voice thundered, sharp as steel. His gaze landed on Kael, and the warrior visibly flinched.
"She—" Kael started, but the words died under Theodore's glare.
The Alpha's son stepped closer, his boots crunching against the stones stained with Lyra's blood. His eyes flicked briefly to her crumpled form on the ground, but no softness touched his face. Only rage — not for her suffering, but for the disorder it caused.
"No one," Theodore said, his voice a low growl, "speaks of this." His gaze swept the courtyard, daring anyone to challenge him. "Not a word. Not a whisper. If I hear so much as a breath…" His lips curled into something dangerous. "…you'll wish you had never been born."
Silence. Not a soul dared meet his gaze.
He lingered there a moment longer, his fury vibrating in the still air, then turned sharply. "Get back to work."
The courtyard erupted again with motion — warriors pretending to spar, servants bustling quickly away, Kael slinking back to the shadows with his jaw tight.
Lyra remained on the ground, her hand pressed to her wound, her body trembling. Theodore did not look back at her. He vanished into the packhouse as though she were nothing more than a stain on the stones.
And yet… his words lingered.
*Not a word. Not a whisper.*
Why?
Why silence them?
She touched the blood at her temple. Warm, sticky, crimson. Different. That was what they had said. Her blood had smell *different.*
Her heart pounded. What did that mean?
Hadn't she been told all her life she was ordinary — less than ordinary? A weak human girl among wolves? A mistake, a burden, a shadow?
Yet the way they had looked at her… not with pity, not with contempt, but with unease, even fear.
She drew her knees to her chest, curling into herself. She wished she could wash the blood away, wished she could scrape it off the stones until no trace remained. Because now there was a question she could not silence.
What was wrong with her blood?
She lifted her gaze to the courtyard, to the stains already darkening where her blood had fallen. And though she tried to bury it, a thought whispered in the back of her mind, cold and relentless:
*Perhaps it isn't wrong. Perhaps it's something else entirely.*
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