Elara Hale wasn't hated. That would've required people to care enough to waste the emotion.
Most days, she was just… there.
Technically, she belonged to the Silvercrest Pack—one of the bigger North American packs hidden among humans. A pack full of ranked heirs, warriors, and perfectly bred wolves with glowing eyes and strong bloodlines.
And then there was her.
Elara, twenty-three, unmarked, unmated, and barely acknowledged. The pack didn't bully her—they simply forgot she existed unless she was in their way. No one assigned her to warrior training or omegas' duties. No one invited her to run during full moons. No one used her name unless they needed something done quickly and quietly.
Still, she smiled.
She woke before dawn, like always, slipping out of the small one-room cabin the pack gave her years ago. The others lived in large houses scattered through the woods, blending into the human town nearby. Elara's place was tucked behind the old storage shed, half-hidden by trees. She didn't mind. It was quiet. Peaceful.
Her boots crunched on fallen pine needles as she walked the narrow dirt path toward the training grounds. She wasn't allowed to join the pack warriors, but she liked using the space before anyone else woke. She'd learned how to stitch wounds, stack supplies, and fix broken weapons—not because she was assigned to, but because she refused to feel useless.
Her wolf was small and quiet, but present. Some days she heard it encouraging her. Other days, it just… listened.
She picked up a training staff and swung it a few times, breath misting in the early cold.
"You're here again?" a voice muttered behind her.
Elara turned. It was Rowan, a low-ranking scout. He wasn't cruel, just confused by her existence.
"As long as no one's using the grounds, I don't think it's a problem," she said brightly.
Rowan stared for a moment like he almost wanted to argue… then lost interest and kept walking.
That was how it usually went. People noticed her only long enough to dismiss her.
By mid-morning, she was hauling medical supplies from the infirmary to storage. No one had asked her to—she just saw boxes stacked wrong and fixed it.
Two she-wolves passed by, laughing about the upcoming Blood Moon Gathering.
"Do you think the Moon Goddess will reveal the rest of the fated pairs this year?" one asked.
"Hopefully someone good. I don't want to end up like… her." The other jerked her chin toward Elara without even lowering her voice.
Elara pretended not to hear and kept organizing the shelves. The comment didn't sting like it used to—it was too familiar to hurt anymore.
At twenty-three, she should've been marked years ago. Most wolves were claimed at eighteen or nineteen, especially in a pack like Silvercrest. People had started whispering that maybe the Moon Goddess skipped her entirely.
Elara didn't believe that. Her faith was stubborn like the rest of her. She knew the mate bond came in its own time. She didn't need pity.
Before sunset, she hiked to the ridge behind the territory. It had the best view of the town's glowing rooftops and the lake reflecting the sky. She sat on a fallen log and hugged her knees, breathing in pine and damp earth.
She talked to her wolf in her mind. Maybe tomorrow we'll get more done. Maybe someone will need us.
The wolf stirred gently, like a warm breath in her chest.
Most people would've gone bitter by now. But Elara had one thing none of them expected from someone forgotten:
Hope.