The omega quarters smelled like desperation.
Elara learned that within her first hour of wakefulness. It was a specific scent—unwashed bodies, stale food, the particular mustiness of beings who had stopped hoping for better. She recognized it the way a sailor recognizes the smell of the sea. She'd lived in it her entire life.
The difference was that at St. Magdalene's, at least everyone was human.
Here, she was the only one.
The omega woman who'd brought her breakfast—middle-aged, with tired eyes and a permanent stoop to her shoulders—gestured for Elara to follow. "I'm Marta. You'll work with me today. The Alpha doesn't want you wandering alone."
"Afraid I'll steal the silverware?"
Marta's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Afraid you'll get yourself killed. The pack isn't... gentle with outsiders. Especially human ones."
Especially nothing ones.
Elara followed her out into the compound.
Morning in Blackthorn territory was brutally beautiful. Sunlight spilled over the mountain peaks, turning snow to diamonds. Wolves of all sizes moved through the compound with purpose—warriors heading to train, women carrying baskets of laundry, children chasing each other with sticks that might have been practice weapons. Steam rose from a central building where the pack kitchens clearly operated.
And everywhere, everywhere, the scent of wolf.
Not unpleasant, exactly. Just overwhelming. Like being dropped into the middle of a forest and realizing you were the only prey animal for miles.
Marta led her toward the kitchens. "You'll wash dishes. Scrub floors. Whatever needs doing. Keep your head down, don't meet anyone's eyes, and answer when spoken to. The younger wolves like to test boundaries."
"Test boundaries?"
"You're human. You're weak. Some of them will want to prove it." Marta's voice was matter-of-fact. "Don't fight back. You'll lose. Don't cry. They'll enjoy it. Just take it and survive. That's what omegas do."
That's what I've always done.
The kitchens were chaos.
Massive hearths roared with fire. Wolves in aprons—wolves in aprons, Elara's brain supplied unhelpfully—shouted orders and hauled enormous pots. The smell of cooking meat made her stomach clench painfully. She couldn't remember her last real meal. The rogue attack had happened on an empty stomach, and the broth Thorne had given her barely counted.
A she-wolf with steel-grey hair and arms like tree branches pointed at a mountain of pots. "Human. Those. By the time the noon meal is served, they'd better be clean enough to eat from. Move."
Elara moved.
The work was brutal. The pots were massive, caked with dried food, and the water in the washbasin was barely warm. Her injured ribs screamed with every movement. Her hands, never soft but never this raw, began to blister within the first hour.
She didn't stop.
Stopping meant attention. Attention meant trouble. Trouble meant pain.
She knew this dance.
By mid-morning, her arms ached. By mid-day, her vision swam with exhaustion. But the pots were clean—cleaner than required, probably, because Elara had learned long ago that doing more than expected was the only way to make herself useful enough to keep.
The she-wolf inspected her work. Grunted. "Not useless. Surprising."
High praise, apparently.
Elara was reaching for another pot when the kitchen went silent.
She felt it before she understood it—a weight in the air, a pressure change, the kind of instinctive hush that fell over the orphanage when Matron was in a rage. Every wolf in the kitchen stopped moving. Some bowed their heads. Others simply froze.
Elara turned.
Alpha Kael stood in the doorway.
He'd changed since the great hall. Now he wore training leathers, damp with sweat, a sword strapped across his back. His dark hair was tousled, and there was a fresh scratch along his jawline that he hadn't bothered to heal. He looked like violence given form—beautiful and terrible and utterly unaware of how much space he occupied.
His silver eyes swept the kitchen.
Found her.
Elara's heart stopped.
For one breathless moment, she thought—foolishly, impossibly—that he might actually see her this time. That something in that cold gaze might flicker with recognition. That the strange burning in her chest might mean something.
His nostrils flared.
Nothing.
His gaze moved on.
Elara forced herself to breathe. Forced her hands to keep moving in the soapy water. Forced her face to remain blank.
You're nothing to him. You knew that. Accept it.
Kael spoke to the kitchen she-wolf in low tones—something about supplies, border patrols, the evening meal. His voice was deep, controlled, utterly without emotion. The kind of voice that had never needed to beg for anything.
Then he was gone.
The kitchen exhaled.
Elara scrubbed harder.
---
That night, alone in her corner cot, Elara examined her arms in the flickering candlelight.
The silvery marks had spread.
What had been a few delicate lines on her forearm now curled past her elbow, intricate patterns that almost looked like... writing? No. Not writing. Something older. Something that made her head ache if she looked too long.
She touched them. They were warm. Not fever-warm, but alive-warm, like they were part of her rather than just on her.
What's happening to me?
The orphanage matron had called her "special" once. Not as a compliment. As a warning. Special girls attract attention, Elara. Special girls get taken. Special girls disappear. She'd learned to hide anything unusual about herself. To blend. To become beige.
But these marks couldn't be hidden forever.
Someone would notice.
Someone like—
A knock at her curtain made her jump.
"It's Marta." The omega's voice was tired. "Eat."
A chunk of bread appeared through the gap. Elara took it, mumbled thanks, and waited until Marta's footsteps faded before pulling her sleeve down and reaching for the bread.
It was still warm.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite, and tried not to think about silver eyes that looked through her like glass.
---
The dreams came again.
Silver wolves, running. Mountains of pure white. A throne made of moonlight and bone.
And a voice—female, ancient, achingly familiar—whispering words Elara couldn't quite grasp.
Daughter of the moon...
Blood of the crown...
They come for you...
Elara woke gasping, her hand pressed to her chest where something burned.
The marks.
They'd spread again. Overnight. Now they curled up her neck, just below her jaw, delicate silver fern-patterns that seemed to shimmer in the dim light.
No.
She scrambled out of bed, found a small piece of polished metal that served as a mirror, and stared at her reflection.
A girl looked back. Eighteen years old. Brown hair from the dye she'd used since childhood. Grey eyes that sometimes caught light strangely. Nothing special. Nothing remarkable.
Except for the silver marks now visible at her throat.
She'd have to hide them. Higher collars. Scarves. Something.
But first—
She needed answers.
---
Elder Thorne's healing hut sat at the edge of the compound, separate from the other buildings. Smoke rose from its chimney. The smell of herbs and something sharper—blood? wolfsbane?—drifted through the cracks.
Elara knocked.
"Enter."
She pushed the door open.
Thorne looked up from a mortar and pestle, his pale eyes immediately sharpening. He took in her face, her posture, the way she held herself. Then his gaze dropped to her neck.
To the marks she'd forgotten to cover in her panic.
For one endless moment, the old healer simply stared.
Then: "Close the door, child. Quickly."
Elara obeyed.
Thorne set down his pestle. Wiped his hands on a cloth. Approached her slowly, the way he had that first day, but now there was something else in his expression. Something that looked almost like... awe.
"Let me see."
She hesitated.
"Child. Let me see."
Elara pulled her collar down.
Thorne's breath caught. His weathered hand reached out, stopped an inch from her skin, trembled slightly. "Moon preserve us. After all these years..."
"What?" Elara's voice came out sharper than intended. "What are they? What's happening to me?"
Thorne's eyes met hers. For the first time, she saw fear in them. Not of her. For her.
"You need to sit down."
"I don't want to sit down. I want answers."
"You'll get them." He guided her to a chair anyway, his grip surprisingly strong. "But you need to understand something first. What I'm about to tell you... no one can know. Not the other omegas. Not the warriors. Especially not the Alpha."
"Especially not—why?"
Thorne knelt before her, taking her hands in his. "Because the Alpha rejected you publicly. Because the pack believes you're nothing. And because if they knew what you really are, child..." He swallowed. "Some would worship you. Some would fear you. And some would kill you before you could become what you're meant to be."
Elara's blood turned to ice.
"What," she whispered, "am I?"
Thorne looked at the silver marks curling up her neck. Looked at her grey eyes with their hidden silver flecks. Looked at her like he was seeing a ghost.
"You're not human, Elara Vale. You never were."
---
End of Chapter 2🐺