The sterile air of the Royal Hospital's delivery room clung heavy, thick with the scent of disinfectant and a raw, primal fear. My sister, the Luna Queen, was giving birth, her cries tearing through the tense silence. My mother clutched my father, their faces etched with anxiety, while Alexander, our Alpha King, stood by the door, a statue of clenched muscle and worry.

I, Olivia Miller, stood apart, an invisible outsider in my own family's drama. My thoughts drifted to familiar, bitter memories: the searing pain of a cigarette butt pressed into my hand, my sister’s mocking smile, her words echoing: “Olivia, do you like the new scar?” Always the preferred child, always her tormentor. My mother’s unwavering belief in my sister’s innocence, my father’s indifference.

A nurse’s panicked scream shattered the reverie. “Luna is bleeding a lot! We can’t control the situation!” Her sleeve was smeared with blood, a shocking crimson stain. Alexander’s voice, usually a command, was laced with desperation. “Why is this happening? Please do something.” My parents tensed, their hands intertwined. Even my own heart tightened. She was, after all, my only sister.

The doctors’ shouts, the nurses’ hurried footsteps—all a distant hum against the gut-wrenching sound of my sister’s weakening cries. I clenched my fists, helpless. Despite everything, I wished I could take her pain away. Then, silence. A dreadful, deafening silence. The doctor emerged, his face grim. “It was a boy,” he said, his voice flat, broken. “Was.” The word cut deeper than any blade. All the years of pain she’d inflicted melted away as the realization crashed over me: I was losing my sister. Alexander stormed into the room, and we followed, into the chilling reality of loss.