Chapter 1
Zara:
Before the rest of the world wakes up, I’m already untethered from sleep. My eyelids snap open at the faintest bit of glow outside my window—a kind of mathematical certainty, hard-coded in my own blood and bones. For a second I stare at the ceiling, blank and cracked, and wait for the little shifts that signal the end of night, such as a change in the wind, or the slow reanimation of the Crested Moon Pack compound. The scrape of a boot. A muffled cough. It’s always someone else’s voice that starts the day.
I slide out from the threadbare sheets until my feet hit the icy floor. There’s a comfort in it. It’s proof I haven’t gone soft, not even in my own body. My room has a single cot, a dented trunk, a plastic basin perched on a rickety stool. The basin is a luxury, the water inside, even more so. I cup my hands, splash my face, let the chill burn a path from nose to scalp. I rub my skin raw. I don’t look in the warped fragment of mirror above the sink, even though I could. My reflection is always a shock with a long, sharp jaw, eyes too big for a face so thin, and hair a wild flag of black. But that’s not why I avoid it.
I braid my hair and then knot it tight at the nape of my neck. My hands move fast in muscle memory and self-defense. Loose hair gets caught in strangers’ hands. I learned that at eight. At ten. Then again at twelve. I finish and reach for the same jeans and black thermal shirt I wore yesterday, and the day before. I own three of each. One pair has holes at the elbows and one is stained green. I pull on my boots standing up, toes curling against the cracked leather. When I open the door, a stripe of winter air rushes in. For a second I taste freedom.
Outside, the compound is a sprawl of barracks and utility sheds radiating out from a squat, concrete main hall. Even in darkness, I know every cracked step, each splintered railing, by heart. It’s easier to navigate by memory than by sight. Sight gives you hope for change. I cross the packed-dirt lane as a pair of guards stride past, heads down, arms tight in regulation posture. They don’t see me, but I see them: their coats, cropped hair, identical pinched mouths. I could reach out and touch one, but it wouldn’t mean anything. I’m not invisible. Just unremarkable.
To my left, smoke trickles from the canteen stove vent: a hint of burnt oats and bitter coffee. To my right, the sentry posts glow with old yellow bulbs, throwing sick light over the chain-link perimeter. Nothing gets out unless Alpha Joseph says so. Then again, nothing interesting ever tries.
I keep to the shadows, hands jammed in my pockets, and cut behind the firewood stacks toward the greenhouse. They call it a greenhouse, but it’s really a corrugated tin patched with plastic. In summer it bakes, while in winter it freezes. But the soil is real. Inside, my breath fogs the air, curling around stalks of sage and limp heads of marigold. It’s the only place in the compound where I don’t have to dodge someone else’s expectations. The other packmates, the ones who notice, think my obsession with herbs is “omega weird.” I’m an omega so it fits.
There are rows of thyme and oregano, chives, yarrow and stunted spinach. I’m careful, never sentimental. If I get attached, I start naming them. That’s a road that goes straight to disappointment. On the bright side, gardening is its own kind of meditation. Some wolves run until their lungs give out. I do this.
I bring the cuttings to the battered potting table and sort them by type, then by use. Painkillers to the left, infection fighters in the middle, anti-inflammatories to the right. I make a fourth pile that’s smaller for experiments and half-baked unproven ideas. The system is mine. No one taught me. No one asked. If the pack ever needs to treat anything worse than a twisted ankle or hangover, it’ll be because someone decided to let me have a say. That’ll be the day.
My hands are dirt-caked and numb when I’m done. The yarrow stains my palms yellow. I flex my fingers and watch the colors bleed into the skin, like evidence. I bundle the piles into muslin pouches, tuck them in the canvas satchel I wear across my chest. Each pouch is labeled with my own shorthand.
By the time I step out, the sun’s cracked the horizon, washing everything in an anemic gold. The compound is louder now, alive with the grunts and barks of wolves who don’t know how to do anything quietly. I dodge a pair of arguing teenagers, one of whom hurls an insult at my back. I catch “stick bug” and “witch bitch” before the second kid smothers a laugh, eyes flicking away before I can glare back.
Not that it matters. My rank in the pack is a thing nobody bothers to articulate, but everyone understands. I am tolerated as long as I’m useful. The moment I stop being useful is the moment I’m walking north, alone, toward a forest that doesn’t want strangers. I used to think I could earn my place by sheer effort. Now I know better.
I find the service entrance to the med shed and nudge my way through. Inside, it’s a chemical ambush among the bleach, rubbing alcohol, and lingering memory of blood. I lock the door after me in reflex and set my satchel on the steel counter. The cabinets are chaos. Pill bottles topple out in a half-hearted avalanche every time I open a door, meanwhile, splints and gauze are stuffed behind bins with peeling labels. I don’t get the glory of medicine, only the burden. Our pack’s “healer”—Lucas Bedham—doesn’t collect his own herbs. Instead, it’s tasked to me. So when my carefully cultivated herb helps a wolf heal their ankle ten times faster, our doc gets the credit. Never mind the female doing the grunt work.
I line my pouches along the shelf, rewrite the labels in careful block letters, sweep the counter clean of stray tablets and gnawed sticks. My exhausted green eyes blink up at me from the polished steel. I stick my tongue out at the ghost and get back to it.
When the bell goes off thirty minutes later, I’ve already taken stock of the painkillers, sliced gauze to standard, and mixed up a batch of anti-itch balm for the pups with winter rash. My day is just beginning, but it already feels like I’ve lived three.
Outside, the compound pulses with motion. Wolves everywhere, sometimes in skin, sometimes not. I keep to the wall as a pack of older boys barrels past, shoving each other with the kind of violence that counts as affection here. I brace for a shoulder-check, but they ignore me. One spits at my boots and they all laugh.
I look at the spit. Step over it. My feet are dirty anyway.
Past the barracks, the territory dips into a shallow valley, then climbs toward the trees. I spot the patrols already, black silhouettes pacing the fence, sentry dogs sprawled at the gate. Smoke from the canteen billows upward, threading into the grim morning sky. Nothing here is wasted.
Except maybe me.
I’m not the only orphan in Crested Moon, but I’m the only one who never got absorbed into a family. The others found niches as kitchen hands, fighters, maintenance. I stayed omega. Someone always has to; it’s easier to be invisible than to be remembered for the wrong thing.
There’s a wild mint patch near the laundry line, just beyond the barracks. I duck down and snip a handful. The scent is sharp, clean. I press a sprig to my wrist and inhale, letting it erase the barracks’ acid reek, the stale sweat of the fighting rings. The sun is up now, the frost melting into slick footprints. If anyone cared, they could track me. No one does.
There’s work to do, and it won’t wait for me to finish dreaming.
***
When the call comes for morning meeting, I’ve got the bundles in my arms, sorted, labeled, and ready for another day of invisibility.
The main hall used to be a rec center—cement block, never meant for this many bodies but it’s now the center of everything. Inside, it’s loud with too many people and last night’s food of sausages, burnt eggs, and that ever-present wet-dog stink. Ha. Shifter joke.
The room’s set up in tiers, half-amphitheater; the closer you are to the Alpha, the higher your rank. I drift to the lowest bench, next to the stack of folding chairs for overflow. Birch is already there, her dark braid swinging over her shoulder. She doesn’t work in the med shed—she’s a scout—but every morning she comes early just to sit with me. She’s my only friend. I slip in beside her; she offers a small smile and a nod.
A cluster of boys my age, junior fighters with gauze-wrapped hands, struts past and drops to their haunches three rows up. They don’t look. Higher, the betas are in a silent standoff: two women, arms crossed, jaws set. The air between them could shatter. At the center, Alpha Joseph sits flanked by his lieutenants, both broad enough to break a car in half. The Alpha himself is almost ordinary until he coughs—a sound like rocks in a tin cup—and the room stills.
Calum, the alpha’s heir, furrows his brows in worry. I quickly dart my eyes, refusing to stare at our future alpha.
“Let’s keep this quick,” Alpha Joseph says once his coughing fit is over. “We’ve got a supply run north, patrols, and a possible coyote incursion.” His voice cracks but nobody comments. “Hunt team is priority. I want the perimeter doubled and a headcount at sundown.”
He doles out assignments, including who hauls wood, who’s on watch, who’s running messages to the farm. I keep my head down, wrapping herbs for the med kit, tying each pouch with twine. I line them up, straight as soldiers, and pretend not to listen. Birch shifts beside me, watches my hands snap the twine. She leans in, and quietly asks, “You okay?” I give her a faint nod. In response, she settles back in silent support. Being an omega herself, she’s one of the few that understands how I’m feeling.
When he’s finished, someone from the kitchen pipes up. “Last time, the hunt team came back with three torn ligaments and a dislocated shoulder. We don’t have the medicine to fix it.”
Alpha Joseph waves her off. “Our healer’s got it handled. He always does.”
He means me, but the words aren’t for me. They’re for Lucas Bedham, who happens to look at me as if to say, “you have to collect more herbs and plants”. I raise my hand anyway. “We could make preventative poultices. Yarrow and comfrey, crushed and wrapped. It’ll keep the swelling down before they shift back.”
No one responds. The Alpha’s already on to the next complaint. Rabbits in the carrots by the southern fence. I let my hand drop, cheeks burning. My grip tightens on a pouch and the dried stems snap, too loud in the hush of being overlooked.
The first rule of the pack is to never speak out of turn, never above your station. But sometimes I forget. Or maybe I hope someone higher up will remember me, just once.
Three minutes later, the doors swing open and Lyrica enters, all confidence and timing. Her hair is wet and smells like fake strawberries, the scent drowning out everything else. She’s in spotless leggings and a white sweater, not a speck of lint. She stands out like someone who’s never been hungry. Her eyes flick to mine, just for a second. I look away. Birch gives my shoulder a quick squeeze—her silent way of saying don’t let it get to you.
Future Alpha Calum doesn’t look away though. He and Lyrica are best friends. Elders say they’re fated mates. Well, not just the elders. Everyone, really, say they’re fated mates. It’s only a matter of time, too. Most mating bonds click into place once both wolves hit twenty-five. Calum is twenty-seven and Lyrica is twenty-three. Lyrica has a young son—I forget how old—and Calum’s his godfather, practically a father figure to the boy already.
I’m twenty-four. My birthday is only a week away. And I can’t decide if I’m excited or terrified.
Lyrica climbs the steps, plants herself between the betas, forcing them to move. It’s a power play, and it works. Half the room is watching her now. Lyrica leans forward, elbows on knees, and delivers her idea in the sweet, careful tone she saves for when she wants to sound clever and not at all threatening.
“I was thinking, for the hunt team, maybe send them out with some poultice wraps. Yarrow, comfrey. Keep the swelling down after they shift. Can we have some ready by lunch?”
The crowd ripples with approval. Alpha Joseph’s eyebrows go up, and he nods. “Smart. Talk to the healer, have him show you.”
“Of course, Alpha.” Her smile is perfect.
My jaw locks down, teeth grinding. I breathe in the green, bitter scent of herbs, anything to keep from choking on the taste of it.
Lyrica waits until the meeting’s over. She knows how to drag things out. Then she heads my way, every step calculated, hips swaying just enough to remind everyone she could be Luna someday. Maybe that’s why she hates me. I never bother to compete.
She stops at my bench, arms folded, looking down on me like I’m something she stepped in.
“You heard the Alpha. We need those wraps for Lucas.”
I glance up. Her blue eyes don’t thaw. Birch slips back a row of chairs to pretend she’s rearranging them, but I catch the sympathetic tilt of her head.
“Already started,” I say, holding up the pouch she just pitched to the room. “There’s enough for everyone.”
She fakes surprise. “So efficient.” Then she takes the pouch from my hand, scrutinizing the label like she expects a mistake.
She won’t find one.
“I’ll let them know you made these,” she says, sugary and sharp. “After I test one myself. If they work, maybe I’ll tell the Alpha he was right to keep you around.”
I nod, focusing on the next bundle. I don’t give her the satisfaction. I can feel her waiting for me to break, but my hands are steady, my face blank.
When she leaves, her stride is lighter. She got what she wanted—a piece of me, chipped off and pocketed.
The rest of the pack filters out. No one talks to me, but Birch sidles back down to my bench, drops a hand on my wrist. “Don’t let her steal your thunder,” she whispers. I force a small smile. She doesn’t need to say more.
I gather my herbs, double-check the labels, stow everything in the satchel. My hands are stained and sore, but I flex them over and over, as if that will shake loose what Lyrica just took.
For a second, heading for the door, I consider ditching the satchel in the trash and walking straight out. Past the dogs, the fence, the patrols.
But then I remember the look the Alpha gave Lyrica, the way the whole room leaned in for her. If I leave, she wins. I’ve never been good at letting anyone win. Birch gives me a final nod before she melts into the crowd; I tuck the satchel under my arm and slip outside, into the cold.
The sky is a dull white, promising snow by nightfall. I crush the satchel to my chest, head for the med shed, fast so no one sees the flush on my cheeks. Birch’s words echo in my mind: Don’t let her steal your thunder.
Inside, I slam the door. The jars rattle in the cabinets, the noise sharp and satisfying. I line up the rest of the pouches, neat as vertebrae, and grind more yarrow. The mortar and pestle bite into the leaves. With every twist, I imagine Lyrica’s smile crumbling under my thumb. I imagine a world where the Alpha looks at me, not her. Where my words count. Where my work is my own.
I work until my arms throb, until the scent of herbs drowns out the bitterness. When I’m done, I stack the pouches, relabel the shelf, and wipe the counter twice. The day is half over and I’m already tired.
But tomorrow, I’ll do it again. Birch will be there, waiting on the bench. And maybe, this time, someone will see.
