Amelie
The cold has settled into my bones. It’s a deep, permanent chill that no amount of shivering can dislodge. Time is a thick, black sludge. It might have been an hour. It might have been a day. The world outside my stone box has ceased to exist.
There is only the ache in my back, the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, and the damp smell of earth and decay. My hope from yesterday feels like a distant memory, a story that happened to someone else. This is real. This cellar is my truth.
A low rumble of voices filters through the ceiling. They are faint, distorted by stone and dirt. I recognize Alpha Valerius’s tone, that booming, self important cadence he uses when he wants to impress someone. He is giving the King a tour.
I can almost picture it. He’ll be pointing out the great tapestry in the hall, the one depicting his grandfather slaying a mythical beast that was, according to Anya, probably just a large, angry badger.
“The craftsmanship is unparalleled,” Valerius’s voice echoes faintly. “Woven by the finest omega artisans, a tradition passed down through generations in my family line.”
A pause. Then, the King’s voice, a low vibration that I feel more than hear. “The threads are uneven. The dye is bleeding in the corners. It is adequate.”
Adequate. The word is a slap. I can feel Valerius’s wounded pride even down here. A small, spiteful part of me finds a sliver of satisfaction in it.
The footsteps move. They are heading down the corridor that passes over the cellar. There are many sets of feet. Heavy, booted steps that must be the royal guards, and Valerius’s lighter, quicker stride as he tries to keep up.
“And this is the armory showcase,” Valerius announces, his voice closer now. “Forged steel from the northern mountains. Each blade is balanced for a true Alpha’s hand.”
“Your pack is not on a war footing, Valerius,” the King’s voice cuts through, sharp and cool. “These are ceremonial pieces. They would shatter against a real blade.”
Another dismissal. Another humiliation. Lyra’s voice joins the mix, sickly sweet.
“Perhaps His Majesty would care for some refreshments? Our kitchens have prepared a wonderful spiced wine.”
“I do not drink wine before concluding my business,” the King states, his tone utterly flat. He sounds bored. Unimpressed by their wealth, their posturing, their daughter.
They continue moving, their voices fading again as they head toward the west wing. Silence descends once more. This is my life now. A ghost listening to the living walk over my grave.
I curl tighter, trying to conserve what little warmth I have left. I close my eyes. Maybe if I can just sleep, I can escape this for a little while. I try to summon my dream, the open field, the stars. But it won’t come.
Then something changes.
It’s not a sound. It’s a feeling. A strange warmth that prickles my skin. A faint current in the dead air of the cellar. It feels like the moment before a lightning strike, when the world holds its breath.
I sit up, my heart starting a slow, heavy drum against my ribs. What is that?
The footsteps are coming back. Much faster this time. Not the meandering pace of a tour, but the focused, determined stride of a hunt.
“Your Majesty, the gardens are this way,” Valerius’s voice is high, tight with panic. “The night-blooming moonpetal is a sight to behold.”
“Be silent,” the King’s voice commands. It’s different now. The boredom is gone. The cool control is gone. In its place is a raw, guttural intensity that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I hear a sharp intake of breath, a gasp from Lyra. Then, a scent. It’s faint, seeping through the cracks in the old door. It smells of pine forests and ancient stone, of power and something wild I cannot name. It fills my small, dark space, pushing back the smell of rot.
It makes me feel… safe. It’s the most confusing sensation I have ever had.
Then, I smell something else. Something coming from me. The stress and fear must be making my scent glands flare. Wild strawberries. Summer rain. A scent I have always tried to hide, to suppress, because it marks me as different. It is a scent that has only ever brought me pain and unwanted attention.
“What is that smell?” Luna Serilda asks, her voice sharp with confusion.
“It is nothing,” Valerius says quickly. Too quickly. “The kitchens, a delivery of fruit perhaps. King Aric, the treaty documents are in my study. We should…”
“I have dreamt of this scent for a century,” the King’s voice is a low rumble, so close now. It’s right outside the door. “Wild strawberries. And rain.”
A century. He knows my scent. How can he know my scent?
My breath catches in my throat. This can’t be happening. It’s impossible. He is the King. I am the scullery maid. He is looking for a prophesied omega with a powerful inner wolf. My wolf is a tiny, broken thing I can barely feel.
“It’s coming from in there,” a new voice says, calm and observant. His Beta, perhaps. “From the cellar.”
“It’s just a storage room!” Valerius almost shrieks, his voice cracking. “Full of old roots and preserves. The smell must be some kind of… fermented jam!”
The footsteps stop. They are directly outside my prison. I can feel the weight of their presence through the thick oak door. I scramble backwards, pressing myself into the corner, making myself as small as possible.
“Open this door,” the King orders.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“I… I seem to have misplaced the key, Your Majesty,” Valerius stammers, the lie thin and pathetic.
“Open. The. Door. Now.” Each word is a block of ice, heavy with a promise of violence that makes my blood run cold.
“Father, what is he talking about?” Lyra asks, her voice laced with a confusion that is rapidly turning to fear. “There’s nothing down there.”
A low sound starts, a vibration that travels through the floor, up my legs, and settles in my chest. It’s a growl. But it’s unlike any growl I have ever heard from an Alpha. It is not born of anger or dominance. It is ancient, possessive, and filled with a terrifying, protective rage.
He smells it. Through the door, through the stone and the dirt, he can smell my pain. He can feel my fear.
And he is furious.
