Someone’s shaking my shoulder, dragging me out of sleep that feels more like unconsciousness.

“Get up. First bell rang five minutes ago.”

I pry my eyes open to find one of the kitchen staff standing over me. Maria, I think her name is. She used to bring me breakfast in bed when I was supposed to be Luna.

Now she’s waking me like I’m any other servant. Which I am.

“First bell?” My voice is rough with sleep.

“Dawn duties.” Her tone is neutral. Polite, even. But distant. Like there’s an invisible wall between us now. “Floor scrubbing starts in ten minutes. You’ll want to eat something first.”

She leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind her.

‘You’re awake,’ Mira’s voice is warm in my mind. ‘How do you feel?’

“Like I got trampled by the entire pack,” I mutter, dragging myself off the mattress. “Which isn’t far from the truth.”

‘We survived. That’s what matters.’

I pull on the plain servant’s dress left folded by the door—rough brown wool that scratches against my skin. Nothing like the soft silks I used to wear. Used to take for granted.

“Mira,” I say quietly as I splash cold water on my face from the barrel. “Why didn’t it work? The rejection. I paid the debt. The bond broke. Why couldn’t I leave?”

‘I don’t know.’ She sounds troubled. ‘But I think… there might be other magic involved. Something beyond just the blood oath.’

“Other magic?” I pause, water dripping from my hands. “But that doesn’t make sense. I’m nobody. Why would anyone waste magic binding me here?”

‘Maybe you’re not as much of a nobody as you think.’

Before I can process that, another knock sounds. “Two minutes!” Maria’s voice, already moving away.

I don’t have time to think about it. Don’t have time for anything except moving, surviving, getting through this day.

The work is brutal.

I’ve done hard work before—I wasn’t raised in luxury, and even as a supposed future Luna, I wasn’t idle. But this is different. This is designed to break you down, to remind you of your place at the bottom of the hierarchy.

Floor scrubbing comes first. On my hands and knees in the main hall, scrubbing stone that never seems to come clean. The cold water makes my fingers go numb, then ache, then tremble with exhaustion.

I’m halfway down the hall when I hear the click of heels on stone.

I don’t look up. Don’t need to. I know that gait, that particular rhythm of expensive shoes against the floor. Celeste stops directly in front of me, her shadow falling across the wet stones I’ve just scrubbed.

“How industrious,” she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

I keep scrubbing. Keep my head down.

Don’t engage. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

“Look at me when your Luna speaking to you, bitch.”

Slowly, I sit back on my heels and look up. She’s truly radiant in the morning light streaming through the windows. Golden hair perfectly arranged, dress of deep emerald that probably costs more than I’ll earn in a year of service.

The Luna pendant gleams at her throat.

She doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t acknowledge me as anything other than an obstacle in her path. Instead, she tilts her wine glass—because of course she’s drinking wine before noon—and lets it spill.

Dark red liquid splashes across the stones I just cleaned, spreading like blood.

“You missed a spot.” She points at the wine with one delicate finger. “Clean it.”

My jaw clenches, but I reach for my brush.

I’m leaning forward, positioning myself over the spill, when her foot comes down on my bandaged hand.

The pain is immediate and blinding. I gasp, trying to pull away, but she presses down harder, the heel of her shoe grinding into the wound beneath the bandages.

“You humiliated Theron. You humiliated me. You think your little display of defiance means anything? You’re nothing. Less than nothing. And if you ever—ever—try something like that again, I will make sure you regret it.”

‘I could kill her,’ Mira snarls. ‘I could shift right now and tear her throat out.’

‘Keep yourself together,’ Mira whispers gently. ‘We’ll figure it out.’

I focus on the wine jug and the dinner ends eventually. They all leave, laughing and sated, not sparing me a single glance as they pass.

I’m furniture. Wallpaper. Nothing.

When the estate finally settles into sleep, when I’m sure everyone is in their chambers, I slip out of my tiny room.

The pack archives are in the east wing, tucked behind a door most wolves have forgotten exists. The records of our history, gathering dust.

The records of my parents’ supposed betrayal.

I light a single candle and start searching. Books from twenty years ago, documents from that year. Most don’t mention my parents at all—they were omegas, after all. Not important enough to record.

But the ones that apparently do…

The pages are gone. Torn out cleanly, like someone took a blade and cut away the evidence. One book, two books, three. Every mention of the Moonscar family—my family—has been systematically destroyed.

‘Something’s not right,’ Mira whispers, pushing me to look closer. ‘This isn’t random. Someone wanted this hidden.’

“But why?” I flip through another book, finding more missing pages. “What are they hiding?”

My fingers catch on something tucked into the spine of one volume—a scrap of paper, folded and yellowed with age. I unfold it carefully, bringing the candle closer.

The handwriting is feminine, elegant, and achingly familiar even though I barely remember seeing it.

“Kira, my princess, I’m so sorry.”

That’s all it says. Just those six words in my mother’s hand.

The sound of breathing cuts through my thoughts. Not mine. Someone else’s. The door opens with a slow, deliberate creak.

I spin around, the candle nearly falling from my trembling hand, and my blood turns to ice.

Theron stands in the doorway, his eyes locked on mine.