The following days passed like mist — shapeless, quiet, and heavy with the kind of silence that carried unspoken words.
No one mentioned the Blood Moon Gathering anymore. Not out loud. But Elara could feel it in the way conversations paused when she walked into a room. The way glances slid off her like oil. The rejection had settled over the pack like a faint scent of smoke — not dangerous enough to cause alarm, but impossible to ignore.
She didn't need anyone's pity, but she could feel it pressing against her back anyway.
Elara kept to her routine. She worked in the healer's garden, helped Lysandra with poultices and herbs, cleaned the storerooms, and stayed out of the main house. She'd learned long ago that invisibility was both curse and protection.
When she woke each morning, the ache in her chest lingered — dull, patient, but no longer sharp enough to cut.
Her wolf was healing slowly too, still quiet, still wary. Some mornings, she would surface just enough to whisper we're okay, and Elara would answer softly, "Not yet. But we will be."
One afternoon, Lysandra sent her to deliver herbs to the training yard. Elara hesitated before going. She hadn't set foot near that field since the night of the Gathering, when Kieran's rejection had turned her into a story.
But duty was duty, and avoiding places only gave them power.
The warriors' shouts and the clash of metal grew louder as she approached. The midday sun glared off their blades, and sweat scented the air.
She spotted Kieran immediately — his movements precise, efficient, cold. He sparred with the Alpha's son, Callen, who would soon inherit leadership of Silvercrest. Together, they made a striking picture of strength and dominance — everything the pack valued.
Elara tightened her grip on the basket and kept her gaze forward. She walked to the healer's tent, set the herbs down quietly, and turned to leave.
But fate — or cruel timing — had other plans.
"Elara," a voice called.
Her spine stiffened. It wasn't Kieran. It was Callen.
The future Alpha stood a few feet away, towel slung over his shoulder, expression unreadable. Kieran glanced briefly in her direction before turning away again, pretending she didn't exist.
"Elara," Callen repeated, stepping closer. "How are you holding up?"
It was a simple question. One that shouldn't have felt like a test. But the way some nearby wolves glanced over — curious, waiting — made it something else entirely.
"I'm fine," she said quietly.
Callen studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, though his tone stayed careful. "Good. Keep your head up. The Moon doesn't waste her choices."
It was meant kindly, perhaps even respectfully. But it still made something in her chest twist. If the Moon didn't waste her choices, then what did that make her — an exception? A mistake?
"Thank you, Alpha," she said, voice steady.
He hesitated, as if wanting to say more, but didn't. When he turned away, Elara felt every pair of eyes slide off her again, the moment passing like wind through grass.
Still, her pulse wouldn't settle. She left the yard without looking back.
That night, the ache returned, heavier. Not because she still loved Kieran — that feeling had withered fast, stripped bare by truth — but because she was realizing just how deep the rejection went.
It wasn't only him. It was the pack itself.
The way they valued strength above compassion. Bloodlines above spirit.
And she, unranked and unseen, had never stood a chance.
She sat by her cabin window long after dark, watching the faint lights of the pack house flicker between the trees. Somewhere inside, Kieran was laughing with the others, training, living as though nothing sacred had been broken.
Elara folded her arms around her knees and rested her head there.
"I don't hate him," she murmured. "I just wish I didn't have to prove my worth to anyone."
Her wolf stirred faintly, soft and low. Then stop proving it. Just live it.
Elara closed her eyes. That simple thought — fierce and quiet — settled deep inside her.
Maybe healing wasn't about getting over something. Maybe it was about growing into the space it left behind.
The next morning, she joined Lysandra early, helping mix tinctures while the dew still clung to the leaves. The older woman didn't speak much, but when she did, her words cut straight through the fog.
"You're changing," Lysandra said, eyes on the bowl she was stirring.
Elara frowned. "How do you mean?"
"The way you move. The way you breathe. You're not waiting to be noticed anymore."
Elara blinked, unsure how to answer. "I don't know if I'm ready to be seen either."
Lysandra smiled faintly. "Ready or not, the world sees what it's meant to. And you, child, are meant to be more than invisible."
Elara looked down at the herbs in her hands, the scent of mint and wolfsbane mingling in the air.
Maybe, she thought, this was what recovery really was — not the end of pain, but the beginning of power.
That night, when she stepped outside before bed, the forest hummed faintly again — the same quiet pulse she'd felt days ago.
But this time, she didn't dismiss it.
She stood still, letting the wind curl around her, eyes closed.
For the first time, she didn't feel small in the dark.
She just felt present.
And though she couldn't see it, far beyond the trees, something else — someone else — felt her too.
The Moon had not forgotten her.
It was only waiting for her to rise.