Chapter 5 You can't eat

Alora stood alone in a world she had been thrust into, where every sound sent a shiver down her spine, her senses too sharp for comfort.

For most werewolves, a week of labor in the fields would be nothing, a mere test of the strength granted by Selene. But for someone like her, born without a wolf, it was torment.

Was it the biting cold of the night that unsettled her? Or the lurking rogues, eager to leave nothing but her corpse behind, just as they nearly had before?

If not for Duane's timely intervention, she wouldn't be standing here. Yet, his act of bravery had earned him nothing but pain, wrapped in the Alpha's fury.

If her heart had a will of its own, it would beg her mind to erase that memory, to silence the fear that made it stutter in her chest.

Maybe she should plead with Otto, ask him to reconsider the punishment.

Her ears stayed sharp, straining for a call, a message, anything from the Beta. When none came, she stepped out of her tattered room, scanning the distance, hoping to see his familiar shadow approaching.

Or perhaps he wanted her to rest before the inevitable. The journey would begin soon, of that, she was certain.

A loud growl from her stomach startled her, a harsh reminder that it hadn't been fed since the night before.

She already knew there would be nothing left for her, yet she still made her way to the kitchen, clinging to a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, there would be scraps forgotten in the chaos.

But as expected, she was greeted by an empty, soulless space. Dirty dishes and utensils lay scattered across the floor, remnants of a feast she hadn't been allowed to touch.

Only a wolf-less creature was deemed worthy of cleaning up such filth. And in the Broln Pack, there was only one. Herself.

Her stomach tightened painfully, another growl tearing through the silence, more insistent this time. Hunger didn't care for dignity. At this point, anything that could silence it would do.

Sifting through the mess, she gathered enough scraps to satisfy her aching belly, forcing the food down in hurried bites. But just as she was about to swallow the last morsel, a stinging slap sent the spoon and plate flying from her hands.

The force of it knocked her off balance, and she crashed to the floor, pain jolting through her limbs.

Her breath hitched as she turned her gaze upward-straight into the scowling face of Thalia.

Another lowly omega.

But there was no light in Thalia's eyes. Only hatred, burning deep and merciless.

"Who gave you permission to eat?"

So the goddess was up there, watching, and yet all this cruelty was allowed to happen. Wasn't she supposed to protect her? Even if her wolf was asleep, couldn't Selene wake it?

"It was just leftovers," Alora whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears, her misty eyes threatening to overflow.

Thalia's gaze flicked to the scattered dishes before curling her lips into a sneer.

"Only dogs eat scraps."

Then, without warning, she kicked Alora, sending her sprawling deeper into the mess of broken plates and cold food.

"Dog!" Thalia spat before storming out, leaving Alora in a silent, crumpled heap.

Tears spilled freely now, soaking into the filth beneath her.

In the depths of her misery, her mind drifted back to the place she once called home-a home that should have shielded her, protected her. Instead, it had exposed her to the merciless claws of those who wished her harm.

If only the ones who brought her into this world had been kinder.

If only they had fought for her.

She wouldn't be here now, lying in filth, punished for eating food meant for the trash.

But who had made her the trash? Alpha Floyd. And her parents.

Alora's youngest brother had his wolf awakened eight moons ago at sixteen, a milestone celebrated with pride. Her siblings thrived under the honor of their lineage, receiving the respect due to the children of a former beta. Yet, she alone was cast down, ranked beneath even the omegas.

No matter how much she wept in frustration or how heavy her misery grew, she clung to one hope, her wolf. Only its emergence could silence the torment suffocating her.

She stumbled to her feet, her gaze dropping to the oil-stained patches marring her best dress. A sharp ache clenched her chest. Swallowing her despair, she forced herself to the sink, scrubbing dishes late into the night, her body aching in silent protest. The relentless pain in her waist, legs, and back gnawed at her, but she endured.

At last, when the task was done, she dragged herself to her room, peeling off her soiled dress. She reached under the bed for a hidden bucket of water, slipping out to a secluded corner beside her room. In the darkness, she took her first bath of the day, washing away the filth but not the shame.

Returning to her room, she collapsed onto her bed, exhaustion swallowing her whole.

This passage is already powerful, but I'll refine it for deeper emotional impact, fluidity, and clarity while maintaining the word count.

RIVERVILLE PACK

The night was silent, save for the distant whistling of birds. The moon was absent, cloaking the land in darkness, an omen of misfortune for their kind. No wolves prowled outside. The howls had quieted, except for the faint echoes from distant packs.

Yet, within the chamber, a heavier silence loomed, thick and oppressive, sinking deep into the soul like an abyss of dread.

Sebastene stood with his back rigid, unmoving, turned away from the woman draped in regal garments, his mother. Shadows obscured her face, but sorrow gleamed in her eyes as she bore her gaze into his unyielding form.

He was not like his father or grandfather. They had armored themselves with fleeting joy against the merciless fate that bound them. But when the curse claimed his father-the former Alpha, at fifty, the weight of their dying pack fell onto his shoulders.

A burden so immense, it devoured the last fragments of happiness within him, shredded them, then cast him into a pit of sorrow, where grief greeted him daily, grief from fallen wolves, from relentless rogue attacks, and from the cruel reality of his stunted, powerless wolf.

"The Alphas gathered today at Broln," his mother finally spoke, her voice dull with grief.

"You're well-informed, Mother." He did not turn to her. His stiff posture grew even stiffer.

"The Alpha took a Luna today. They say she's Denovan's daughter from the Herith Pack."

She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

A mother's touch-meant to comfort. And for a fleeting moment, he almost believed in its solace.

"Isn't it time you took a Luna, son?"

Luna?

The mere word shattered what little peace he held. His pupils darkened instantly.

"Lunas aren't meant for half-Alphas." The words left his mouth like venom, his temper igniting like dry leaves to fire.

Was he a werewolf? Yes. No. Maybe. A half-werewolf? Wrong again.

He was something else, something worse. The weakest breed of their kind. And a Luna? He had no use for one.

"A Luna will help you run the pack's affairs."

He almost laughed. Affairs? His mother had quite the sense of humor.

A low, bitter chuckle rumbled from his chest as he turned to face her, his gaze sharp as a blade.

"What affairs, Mother? Watching our wolves die at fifty? Counting the bodies after every rogue attack? Hiding from enemies because we are too weak to fight? Is there any other 'affair' I'm unaware of?"

Other packs thrived, their nights filled with hunts and joyous celebrations beneath the moon's glow. But Riverville? A ghost of its former self. A lifeless place where wolves hunted by day, when prey hid and the land lay still, because even the moon had forsaken them.

His muscles coiled with frustration, his rage swelling with every thought of their misfortune. His face burned. His fists clenched.

"Son, this life we-"

"I need space, Mother." The words erupted from him, a violent storm ready to tear through everything in its wake.

His mother hesitated but knew better than to push further. Without another word, she left the chamber.

Sebastene's darkened gaze lifted to the empty sky, his expression twisted with fury and despair.

"Isn't it enough, Goddess?" he muttered, before trudging to his bed, exhaustion clawing at his soul.