I wait until the compound falls silent.
The wolves settle into their nightly routines, patrols shifting as lights dim in the Alpha's hall. I lie on my cot fully dressed, listening to footsteps fade into nothing, counting the minutes until I can be sure everyone has settled into sleep.
When the last voice disappears, I move.
The grimoire feels heavier than it should as I tuck it inside my shirt, the leather cold against my skin. I grab the small pack I prepared earlier, hidden under my cot where no one would think to look. A waterskin. A knife I stole from the kitchen months ago. A worn cloak that used to belong to someone else. Nothing that will be missed. Nothing that will raise an alarm when I'm gone.
I slip out of my room and into the night.
The moon hangs low and full, three days from peak. My bones ache worse tonight, that pulling sensation spreading from my spine into my limbs like something inside me is trying to claw its way out. I've felt this before, every full moon, but tonight it's sharper. More insistent. Like whatever's been sleeping inside me is starting to wake.
I push it down and focus on moving quietly.
The restricted archives are in the library's basement. I've only been down there once, years ago, when I was sent to retrieve a damaged ledger for the pack historian. The air had tasted old and wrong, like the walls themselves remembered things they shouldn't, like secrets had soaked into the stone over centuries.
I reach the library without being seen. The door creaks as I ease it open and I freeze, every muscle locked, listening for any sound of movement.
Nothing.
Inside, moonlight cuts through the windows in silver bars, painting the floor in stripes of light and shadow. I light a small candle I brought and shield the flame with my hand, keeping it small and controlled. The basement entrance is behind the main desk, hidden under a worn rug that most people probably don't even notice anymore.
I pull the rug aside and lift the trapdoor, my arms straining against the weight.
The stairs descend into darkness, and the air rising from below is cold and stale, untouched by anything living. I hesitate for just a moment, then force myself down into the depths.
The candlelight flickers against stone walls as I descend, shadows dancing across surfaces that haven't seen light in who knows how long. Shelves line the narrow space, packed with books and scrolls that look like they'd crumble if I breathed on them too hard. Dust coats everything, thick and undisturbed.
I set the grimoire on a small table in the center of the room and open it carefully, the pages brittle beneath my fingers. The text is written in old lunar script, the kind that shifts slightly depending on how the light hits it, like the words are alive and moving. I've taught myself enough to read it, though it's slow work, piecing together meaning from ancient symbols.
I turn to the ritual section.
The Rite of Severance.
The instructions are precise, almost clinical in their detail. Methodical. Like whoever wrote this knew exactly what they were doing and wanted to make sure anyone who followed would understand the weight of it.
Three components required: blood, moonlight, and sacred ground.
The blood must be given willingly. The moonlight must be at its peak. The sacred ground must be the Moon Goddess's temple.
I know where the temple is because everyone does. It's deep in the forbidden territory, past the pack's northern border where no one goes. The land itself is supposed to be cursed, abandoned by the Goddess centuries ago after something happened that the pack doesn't talk about.
Perfect.
The ritual itself is written in careful steps that I read over and over until the words blur together. Cut the palm. Let the blood fall on the altar. Speak the words of severance under the full moon. Simple. Direct. Final.
And then it warns, in text so small I have to squint to read it: Only those with true lunar blood may survive the rite. To sever the bond between wolf and Moon is to tear the soul. Those without the Goddess's favor will be consumed.
I sit back, staring at the words until they're burned into my vision.
True lunar blood.
I don't have wolf blood. I don't have the Goddess's favor. I don't have anything except this one chance at freedom.
But I also don't have a choice.
The memory rises unbidden, sharp and clear as if it happened yesterday instead of years ago.
I'm twelve, maybe thirteen, and I've just finished scrubbing the training hall floors when Lucen walks in with a group of younger wolves. Lucen sees me and smirks, that expression I've learned to recognize from a distance, the one that means I'm about to become entertainment.
"Look, the pet is still here."
One of the younger wolves laughs nervously, clearly wanting to impress the Alpha heir. "Why do we keep her?"
"Charity," Lucen says, walking over to crouch in front of me like I'm something interesting he found on the ground. "Isn't that right, Aphrodite? We keep you out of the kindness of our hearts."
I don't answer because I've learned that answering only makes it worse, that silence is the only protection I have. Words just give them ammunition.
Lucen grabs the bucket of dirty water I've been using and dumps it across the floor I just cleaned, the grey water spreading across the stone in a dark stain.
"Oops."
The younger wolves laugh as Lucen stands and walks away without looking back, already dismissing me from memory like I never existed at all.
I clean the floor again, alone in the silence that follows humiliation.
I blink and I'm back in the archives, staring at the grimoire with my hands trembling against the old wooden table.
No.
I'm not staying here. I'm not becoming a bound servant, locked to this pack by blood magic I can't escape. I'm not spending the rest of my life carrying water and cleaning floors for people who see me as less than nothing, as a problem to be managed and eventually disposed of.
If this ritual kills me, at least I'll die free.
I memorize the words, the gestures, the timing. All of it taking hours as the candle burns low, wax pooling at the base and dripping onto the table. My eyes ache from reading by flickering light, but I force myself to continue until every detail is burned into my mind, until I could perform the ritual with my eyes closed.
When I'm certain I have it, when I've gone over it so many times the words feel like they're part of me, I close the book and tuck it back inside my shirt.
I need to move before dawn breaks. Before the early risers start their patrols and my window of opportunity closes forever.
I climb out of the archives and replace the rug, smoothing it down so no one will know I was here. My hands shake as I blow out the candle, plunging the library back into darkness. The library is still empty and silent around me, full of knowledge that most of the pack will never touch.
I slip outside and head toward my room to gather my things.
Cassian is standing in the courtyard.
I freeze against the wall, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure Cassian can hear it. Every instinct screams at me to run, but running will only draw attention.
Cassian is facing away from me with arms crossed, staring at the Alpha's hall with the kind of stillness that suggests deep thought. Cassian doesn't move, doesn't turn, just stands there like a statue carved from stone.
I hold my breath and press myself flat against the wall, praying Cassian doesn't sense my presence, doesn't catch my scent on the night air.
After a long moment that feels like an eternity, Cassian walks toward the hall and disappears inside, the door closing behind with a soft thud.
I don't wait. I run.
Back in my room, I grab my pack and sling it over my shoulder, checking one last time that I have everything. The grimoire goes into an inner pocket where it won't shift or fall. The knife goes into my belt where I can reach it quickly. I have no family to say goodbye to. No friends to warn. No one who will miss me or wonder where I went.
I'm a loose end, and loose ends don't get closure.
I leave through the back of the compound, where the fence is weakest from years of neglect. I've checked it before, during the rare moments I had to myself, testing the boards and measuring the gap. The opening is just wide enough for me to squeeze through if I turn sideways and don't breathe too deeply.
The forest swallows me instantly.
I move quickly, pushing through underbrush and low-hanging branches as the moon lights my path. My body still aches with that strange pulling sensation, but adrenaline keeps me moving, keeps my legs working even when they want to give out.
The pack boundary is marked by old stones carved with territorial runes, ancient markers that have stood for generations. I can feel them as I approach, a subtle pressure in the air that builds with each step, a warning that pulses against my skin like a heartbeat.
I step over the line.
The world tilts beneath my feet.
Pain explodes through my chest, not physical but deeper, like something inside me just snapped in half. I stumble and catch myself against a tree, bark rough under my palms, my breath coming in short gasps as the pain fades slowly and leaves behind a hollow ache that settles in my bones.
I look back at the compound where the lights are distant now and small, barely visible through the trees.
I'm free. Or I will be, once the ritual is done and the bond is severed completely.
I turn north and start walking, moving deeper into the darkness and away from everything I've ever known.
The forest grows thicker around me as I move farther from the compound. The moon filters through the canopy in broken fragments, and I force myself not to look back at the pack that never wanted me, at the place that made me invisible.
The boundary stones fade into the distance behind me.
And I disappear into the night.