Mira.
The great hall buzzes, a hive of celebration. Torches spit sparks toward the high, beamed ceiling, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine. I am a statue in the corner, the silk shawl Darius gave me draped over my shoulders. It feels like a shroud.
Lyra is holding court near the head table, Darius at her side. She glows. My father laughs at something one of his Betas says, his voice a rumbling thunder that makes my teeth ache. No one looks my way. It is a familiar, comfortable sort of pain.
Then, he moves. Darius detaches himself from Lyra’s side, his eyes finding mine across the crowded room. He walks toward me with a purpose that makes my heart start a frantic, stupid rhythm against my ribs. The crowd parts for him, as it always does for an heir.
“Hiding in the shadows, Mira?” he asks, his voice a low murmur that cuts through the din. He stops in front of me, so close I can smell the pine and leather scent clinging to him.
“Just observing,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. I clutch the edges of the shawl.
“The watcher,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. It does not feel like a mockery this time. “A valuable skill. Most warriors only know how to act. They rarely know when to watch.” He extends a hand. “Dance with me.”
It is not a question. My hand finds his, and a jolt goes through me. He leads me to the center of the floor, and the pack’s attention follows us. I feel their stares, their whispers. The wolfless girl dancing with the future Alpha. A scandal. A curiosity.
He pulls me close. His hand rests on the small of my back, firm and warm. We move to the slow, rhythmic beat of the drummers.
“You wear the shawl well,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “It brings out a fire in your eyes I doubt many people get to see.”
My cheeks flush. “Thank you for the gift.”
“You deserve to be given beautiful things.” He spins me, and for a moment, the world is a blur of firelight and faces. When I settle back against him, his gaze is intense. “Your sister has the pack’s admiration. But you have a mind that works in silence. That is a different kind of power, Mira. A sharper kind.”
My breath catches. No one has ever spoken to me like this. No one has ever looked for power in my silence, only weakness. Hope, a dangerous and venomous thing, begins to bloom in my chest. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe the gift was not an insult but a clumsy attempt at kindness.
He leans in again, his lips brushing my temple. “Do not let them make you feel small.”
When the music ends, he bows slightly and returns to Lyra’s side, leaving me breathless and dizzy in the middle of the floor. My heart is a wild bird beating against my ribs. For the first time, I do not feel like a ghost. I feel seen.
The heat in the hall becomes overwhelming. I need air. I need a moment to hold onto this fragile new feeling before it shatters. I slip out through a side door onto a stone veranda overlooking the dark forest. The cool night air is a relief.
Voices drift from around the corner, Darius’s distinct baritone among them. He is with a few of his friends, their laughter coarse.
“You are spending a lot of time with the quiet one,” one of his cronies says, his tone teasing. “Trying to court both sisters, Darius?”
I freeze, my body pressed against the cold stone wall. I should leave. I should not listen.
Darius lets out a loud, booming laugh. It is not the charming sound I heard on the dance floor. This one is sharp, and full of scorn.
“Lyra is my future, a true Luna,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “A queen for my pack.”
There is a pause. I hold my breath.
“Mira?” he continues, and the casual cruelty in his tone hits me like a physical blow. “She’s a lovely piece of decor, not a warrior. It's amusing to see her blush, but that's all she's good for.”
The hope in my chest implodes, turning to ash and ice. Decor. An amusing toy. The words echo in the sudden silence of my mind, louder than the feast, louder than the drums, louder than my own frantic heartbeat. He did not see me. He saw an object to be played with.
My hands tremble as I tear the silk shawl from my shoulders. It feels slick and cold, like a snake’s skin. I let it fall to the stone floor. I turn and flee into the darkness, the sound of his laughter chasing me all the way.
