Amber
The whispers follow us like ghosts. They are thin, sharp things that slither through the gilded hallways and coil in the corners of every room. When I walk by with Lena, conversations die. Heads turn away. Fans snap shut with a sound like breaking bones.
“They’re saying you’re a courtesan,” Lena mutters, her jaw tight as we cross the main courtyard. She keeps her voice low, for my ears only. “A clever one. That you used some kind of fringe magic to… to enchant him.”
My hand goes to the simple river stone around my neck. Its smooth surface is the only comfort in this place. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it is,” she snaps. “But they believe it. Look at them.”
I don’t have to look. I can feel their eyes on my back, a hundred tiny pinpricks of malice and suspicion. In the two days since the feast, we have become phantoms. Our petition for aid has been forgotten. We are no longer the desperate Silverwood pack. We are the King’s strange obsession. And I… I am the witch who caused it.
Even our assigned quarters feel colder. The servants who once brought us meager meals now leave the trays outside the door and flee. Ronan’s face has grown more haggard, the lines around his eyes deeper. Hope is a fragile thing, and I can feel it dying in my people.
“We just need to get our rations for the day,” I say, trying to inject a confidence I don’t feel into my voice. “Then we can go back. Just ignore them.”
“Hard to ignore an entire court,” Lena grumbles, but she falls into step beside me, her presence a small, defiant shield.
The courtyard is awash with midday sun. Lords and ladies stand in small, gossiping clusters, their silks and velvets a painful splash of color against the gray stone. They part for us like we carry a plague. We approach the supply master’s station, a small alcove where provisions are distributed.
The quartermaster, a man with a perpetually sour face, looks up as we approach. He sees me, and his mouth twists into a sneer. He deliberately turns his back, busying himself with a stack of crates.
We wait. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate. The whispers around the courtyard grow louder. I can feel the humiliation creeping up my neck like a hot rash. We are being made a spectacle.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice clearer than I expect. “We are here for the Silverwood pack’s allotment.”
The man doesn’t turn. “Allotments are for guests of the crown. Not for beggars and schemers.”
Lena takes a step forward, a low growl rumbling in her chest. I put a hand on her arm, holding her back.
“There seems to be some confusion,” a voice says. It is smooth as oil and just as flammable.
We turn. A tall Alpha stands behind us, flanked by two guards. He is impeccably dressed in dark crimson, his blond hair perfectly coiffed. There is an arrogance in his posture, in the contemptuous curve of his lips, that makes my skin crawl. I recognize him from the high table. He had been watching the King with a predatory focus.
“Lord Valerius,” the quartermaster says, bowing low. “No confusion, my lord. Just dealing with some… refuse.”
Lord Valerius’s eyes, the color of chips of ice, rake over me. They do not see a person. They see an insect to be crushed.
“So this is the little omega,” he says, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent courtyard. Every conversation has stopped. Everyone is watching. “The one who has so addled our King’s senses.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. My heart is a frantic bird in my chest, but I will not let him see. “I am Amber of the Silverwood pack. We are here to petition the King for aid.”
He laughs, a short, ugly sound. “Petition? Is that what you call it? I have another name for it. You cast a spell, didn’t you? Used some filthy, wild magic to ensnare him.”
He takes a step closer, invading my space. His scent is cloying. Heavy perfume and something bitter underneath. “He is an Alpha King. A god among men. And you are… nothing. A worthless, weak omega from a dying pack. You are not fit to breathe the same air as him, let alone catch his eye.”
My hands tremble. I clench them into fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. The pain is grounding. Do not break. Do not look away.
“The King saw fit to invite us to his hall,” I say, my voice quiet but steady. “We are his guests.”
“You are a pestilence,” Valerius sneers, his face contorting with rage. He lowers his voice, a venomous hiss meant just for me, but loud enough for those nearby to hear. “The Queen, Seraphina, is his wife. She is an Alpha of a bloodline more pure and powerful than you could ever comprehend. She is his strength. His dynasty. And you think you can slink in here with your sad eyes and your scent of poverty and undo all of that?”
Behind him, I see the faces of the court. Some look smug, enjoying the show. Others look uncomfortable, but none will intervene. This is a display of power, and I am the object being broken.
“We want nothing but aid for our starving people,” I say.
“Oh, you will get nothing,” he says, his smile turning cruel. “You should be grateful for any scraps the crown throws your way. You should take them, and then you and your mangy kin should crawl back to whatever hovel you spawned from.”
Lena lunges. “You bastard!”
I catch her arm, my grip like iron. “Lena, no.”
Valerius just laughs. “So the little mud-dweller has a guard dog. How touching. It changes nothing.”
He leans in, his face inches from mine. His voice drops to a whisper that feels more violent than a shout. “This is your only warning. You are a mistake. A momentary distraction. Disappear. Before the Queen and I decide to have you… removed.”
The threat hangs in the air, cold and sharp. My wolf is screaming, a terrified whine deep in my soul, begging me to run, to submit, to show my throat and end this. But the part of me that is Ronan’s student, my mother’s daughter, the last hope of my pack, refuses.
I do not speak. I do not flinch. I just hold his gaze. I let him look into my eyes and see that he has not broken me. I am a child of a blighted land. I have seen starvation and sickness. I have buried my family. His words are cruel, but they are just words. They are not the winter cold or the empty harvest.
I am made of stone and bone, and I will not crumble for him.
The silence stretches. It is a battle of wills played out in front of the entire court. His icy fury against my quiet resolve.
And I see the moment he loses.
A flicker of frustration crosses his face. He expected tears. He expected pleading. He expected me to fall apart, to prove his assessment of me as a weak, worthless omega. My stillness is a defiance he cannot comprehend, and it infuriates him.
With a final, disgusted sneer, he straightens up. “You will regret this,” he spits.
He turns on his heel, his crimson cloak swirling behind him, and storms away, his guards scrambling to keep pace. The show is over.
The court does not cheer. They do not comfort. They simply begin to whisper again, their voices a low, excited buzz. The spectacle has given them new fuel for their gossip.
Lena slumps against me, the fight draining out of her. “Amber, I’m so sorry, I…”
“You did nothing wrong,” I say, my voice still unnervingly calm. My body has not yet caught up with my mind. The trembling starts now, a violent shudder that wracks my entire frame.
I turn back to the supply master’s alcove. The quartermaster is staring at me, his sour expression now mixed with a sliver of fear. He saw it too. He saw a high lord fail to break me.
I hold out my empty ration sack. I don’t say a word.
His eyes dart around the courtyard, then back to me. He hesitates for only a moment. Then, with trembling hands, he grabs a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese and shoves them into my bag.
I nod once. “Thank you.”
Then I turn, take Lena’s arm, and walk away. I do not run. I walk with my head held high, through the sea of whispering courtiers, across the sun-drenched stone.
Each step is an effort. Each breath is a victory. I feel their eyes on me, no longer just pitying or suspicious. There is something new in their gazes now. Something that might almost be respect.
Or perhaps it is fear. I am no longer just the fringe omega. I am the woman who stared down Lord Valerius and did not break. And in this court of gilded predators, I have no idea if that makes me safer, or a more tempting target.
