Morning sunlight spilled across the pack house courtyard, casting long golden lines over the training grounds. Abigail hurried across the stone path with a wooden basket clutched to her chest, her head bowed as she tried to avoid attention. The basket was filled with linens she'd been ordered to scrub and hang before the midday bell. Her shoulders already ached from the weight of chores, but it was the sharp sting of yesterday's memory the happy families laughing together that hurt more than her body ever could.
She slipped past two warriors sharpening their blades, their chuckles cutting into her like knives. "Look at the little mouse scurrying again," one muttered. She ignored them, focusing on her steps. If she made herself small enough, invisible enough, maybe today would pass quietly.
But fate never allowed her such mercy.
As she rounded the corner of the courtyard, a familiar voice cut through the air smooth, sharp, and dripping with disdain.
"Well, if it isn't the pack's little shadow."
Abigail stiffened. Her grip tightened on the basket until her knuckles whitened. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
Lyra, the Beta's mate, stood at the edge of the training grounds. Her golden hair glinted in the sunlight, her posture elegant, her clothes embroidered with delicate silver threads that screamed of privilege. Around her, several pack women lingered, watching with thin smiles, eager for entertainment.
Abigail lowered her head quickly. "Good morning, Lady Lyra." Her voice was soft, careful, the kind of tone she used with wolves who could destroy her life with a single whim.
Lyra's lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the stone. "Still groveling, I see. Tell me, Abigail, do you ever get tired of playing the obedient little servant? Or is that the only skill you have?"
A ripple of laughter rose from the onlookers. Abigail's stomach churned, but she kept her head bowed. If she stayed silent, maybe it would end faster.
But Lyra wasn't satisfied with silence. She circled Aria like a predator toying with its prey, her voice loud enough for the courtyard to hear. "You know, sometimes I wonder why the Alpha allows creatures like you to remain here. An orphaned omega no parents, no lineage, no worth. What purpose do you even serve, except scrubbing floors and carrying laundry?"
The basket trembled in Abigail's hands. Heat rose in her cheeks, shame burning her skin. Still, she said nothing.
Lyra leaned in, her breath brushing against Abigail's ear. "Do you ever dream, Abigail? Dream of being something more? Of being loved, perhaps? Because if you do, it's laughable."
Another burst of laughter echoed. One of the women added cruelly, "Who would want her? Even the rogues wouldn't claim her."
Abigail's throat tightened. She forced her eyes to the ground, focusing on the cracks in the stone beneath her feet. If she looked up, if she let them see the tears threatening to form, they would only laugh harder.
Lyra stepped back, tilting her head with mock pity. "Perhaps you believe kindness will find you. That the Alpha might glance your way? Don't fool yourself, omega. Alphas choose strength, beauty, and power. You have none."
Abigail's chest heaved. Each word was a blade, slicing deeper into wounds that never healed. She wanted to scream, to defend herself, but fear sealed her lips. Omegas who spoke back rarely survived the consequences.
Just as Lyra opened her mouth to deliver another insult, the sound of boots striking stone interrupted. Warriors paused, straightening as Alpha Steve entered the courtyard. His gaze swept across the group, his presence alone commanding silence.
Abigail's heart stopped.
Steve's dark eyes lingered on the circle, then on her. For a split second, his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. Lyra's smirk faltered, but only briefly. She dipped her head gracefully in respect.
"Alpha," she said smoothly, her voice sugar-coated. "We were only… conversing."
Steve said nothing. He passed by without slowing, his sharp gaze flicking once more to Abigail before shifting ahead.
When he disappeared into the training hall, the air shifted again. Lyra's smirk returned, sharper than before.
"See?" she whispered loudly enough for Abigail to hear. "Even when he looks at you, it's with disdain. Don't mistake his silence for care."
The laughter resumed, cruel and ringing. Abigail's eyes blurred, her grip on the basket slipping. She forced herself to turn away, each step heavy as she retreated toward the laundry huts.
When she finally reached the solitude of the courtyard's edge, she set the basket down and pressed her trembling hands against her face. She hadn't cried not yet but her chest felt as though it might burst from holding back.
Lyra's words echoed mercilessly in her mind. No parents. No worth. No one will ever want you.
Alone, in the shadow of the laundry lines, Abigail whispered to herself, a fragile voice breaking in the wind.
"I don't believe her. I… I can't."
But deep down, she wasn't sure she had the strength to believe otherwise.