The first of the month meant a grand feast for the Blue Moon Pack, a tradition stretching back generations. Yet, for me, it was just another day of relentless labor, the cold morning air biting as I rose. My clock read 4:15 AM, breakfast for over 300 wolves was due at 7 AM sharp, and with only three of us omegas left, the burden felt crushing.

After a quick, cold shower, I pulled on my shapeless tan 'maids' dress, its rough fabric a constant reminder of my place. Downstairs, the scent of breakfast—my mother, her true mate Calvin Evans (the Delta), and my half-brother Jack Evans (the future Delta)—wafted from the kitchen. They ate, laughed, and existed in a world where I was an unwelcome shadow, a 'mistake' who had no place at their table.

My mother's words echoed in my head: “You were just some lone wolf’s child.” They were a constant refrain, each syllable a fresh wound. She often said she’d ship me off if she ever saw my father again. Their wolf bonds were stronger, truer, with Jack—her 'true' first pup. I was just... me.

On the dirt path to the packhouse, I kicked at rocks, watching them skip. It wasn't always like this. Jack and I, once close, had drifted apart when he realized how the pack truly viewed me. The peer pressure of teenage wolves, the collective disdain for the 'worthless' one who never shifted—it had broken us. My dormant wolf was a mark of shame, a sign of my uselessness in a world where strength was everything. Yet, deep down, I knew she was there, stirring with a strange, unbidden excitement, even as my day promised only 600 dishes to wash. The packhouse loomed ahead, quiet in the pre-dawn light, a place of endless labor and chilling solitude.