The she-wolves laughed even harder, their mocking howls echoing off the stone walls of the gathering hall.
Finally, the one who had stayed quiet spoke up from her cushioned seat near the fire pit, her voice heavy with a tired sigh.
"Just go."
"Even if you dropped to the floor and pressed your throat to the ground a hundred times, we still wouldn't help you."
Because Aurora had given them clear orders beforehand.
Pack Sanction was Pack Sanction.
For three full years, they were forbidden from showing me any kindness or offering me the smallest bit of aid.
Only then could they properly avenge her pack liaison, Rowan.
So how did I eventually scrape together those five hundred silver marks?
I walked into the Den-Healers' Hall and sold my blood—let them drain me until my vision went dark at the edges.
When I finally brought the payment to the outcast holding grounds, I was told Aurora had already been released on a healer's mercy order.
That money passed through several hands before reaching one of Aurora's court-circle companions.
I was so desperate I nearly dropped to my knees and bared my throat in full submission.
"Please—make sure this gets to Aurora. She can't afford any more trouble with the Pack Elders."
But at that very moment, Aurora was with Rowan at the Moonlit Festival grounds, posing for portrait-weavers.
She took my five hundred silver marks and tossed them at a servant like crumpled scraps.
"Dirty coin from the gods know where. How disgusting."
Just like my devotion—trampled without a second thought.
And now, here was Aurora herself, displaying a moon-blessed ceremonial vessel worth more than most wolves earned in a lifetime as mere decoration for Rowan's birth-moon celebration.
Every detail had been carefully planned.
But I had no stomach to watch any more.
Several times I nearly lost control—nearly charged in there, my wolf clawing at the edges of my skin.
I wanted to appear before Aurora and rake my claws across her face, again and again.
I wanted to demand why she had deceived me for three years. Was it really just because I made Rowan serve as a house-wolf for three days?
I wanted to show her everything—every wound I'd suffered over those three years, every scar carved into my body.
Lay it all bare before her cold golden eyes.
But in the end, I did nothing.
I watched the woman who should have been confined to the outcast dens for three more days. She stood there in ceremonial furs worth a small territory's tribute, looking every inch the ruthless Alpha.
She had thrown this grand, wasteful birth-moon feast specifically for her pack liaison.
She had summoned her entire court-circle to celebrate, gazing at Rowan with open warmth as she wished him well on his naming day.
Then I turned away, my face showing nothing, and returned to the underground den I rented.
Dark. Damp. I had lived there for three years.
The washing corner was right by the entrance, its walls thick with moss that had built up over time, the smell of rot drifting through at random.
I still remembered my first days there—the constant sickness in my gut, the dry heaving.
For the first twenty-five years of my life, I had wanted for nothing. I was the firstborn heir of the noble Duskvale bloodline, raised in comfort, never having tasted hardship.
I was also a famed scent-weaver across many territories, my den walls lined with honor-marks and recognition tokens.
At the height of my standing, Aurora Frostvein—the Alpha heiress of the Frostvein Pack—had pursued me without rest until I agreed to accept her mating bond.
After the bonding ceremony, I had easily become what wolves called a "blessed wolf."
Until Aurora brought in a soft-spoken, harmless-seeming pack liaison named Rowan.
He was the son of my family's house-servant, yet he competed with me at every turn.
His furs weren't as fine as mine, so he mocked me as a useless pretty-blood.
His abilities couldn't match mine, so he whispered behind my back that I had only gotten where I was through birthright or my mate's influence.
Worse still, he had worked his way into becoming Aurora's trusted liaison—and never missed a chance to poison her thoughts against me.
He told her how I supposedly mistreated his mother in our den, ruined his belongings.
How I had made him kneel and serve as a house-wolf.
I had always believed the truth would speak for itself. I never bothered to defend myself.
Until the day I finally completed the ward-weave I had worked on for two full years.
I was about to have it sealed and blessed. I stepped out for just a moment.
When I returned, it was soaked in black ink—ruined beyond saving.
