Reborn to Reign

Pandora's POV The day I was born was the day I was utterly f****d. I did not need a holy priest to tell me that. My father, Silas Moonvale, made sure I knew it before I could even talk. My older brother, Roman, taught me that lesson with his heavy fists every time I breathed too loudly in his presence. And every shiny silver mirror in the Lightvane Packhouse was a cruel reminder, if I was ever stupid enough to look. I kept my eyes fixed where they belonged: down on the wet, freezing floor. The stone floor was freezing cold under my bare knees. Dirty dishwater, gray pork fat, and boiled cabbage soup covered the hard stone in a slick, smelly puddle. My hands were bright red, raw, and shaking from four straight hours of scrubbing. The stiff metal bristles of my brush had worn down to sharp little points that poked deep into my palms. But I did not dare stop. If the stone floor was not clean before the morning bell rang, the head cook would hit my back with a heavy wooden board. Above my head, the entire packhouse was loud and busy. Heavy boots walked across the wooden floorboards of the Great Hall. Metal wagon wheels rolled over the gravel out in the front yard. Big wooden barrels of salted pork, pickled vegetables, and sweet berry wine thumped down the delivery ramps right outside the kitchen doors. Tonight was the Great Winter Gala. Three hundred high-ranking Alpha lords, Betas, and rich territory leaders were coming to our valley. They were coming to eat our food, drink our wine, and bow down at the feet of my twin sister. For the rest of the pack, tonight was a night of grand celebration. For me, it meant pure hell. It meant carrying heavy buckets of black ash from the fireplaces. It meant cleaning huge iron roasting pans with harsh, burning soap until the skin peeled off my fingers. And it gave Roman an excuse to walk through the servant halls with a leather horse whip, looking for any reason to make me bleed. I paused for just a second. I sat back on my heels, wiped my wet hands on my rough cloth apron, and reached up to touch the thick head wrap tied tightly around my skull. The brown cloth covering my hair was thick, scratchy, and smelled of old woodsmoke and animal fat. It was pinned under my chin with three dull iron pins. I pressed my fingers against my head, checking every single fold. Not a single strand of hair was sticking out. It had to stay that way. If even one pin slipped—if anyone caught a single peek at what grew on my head—I would be thrown into the dark iron cages beneath the dog kennels for a week. My hair was split right down the center of my head. The left side was pure, snow-white. The right side was pitch-black. A split head means a split soul, the pack priests preached across every territory. A demon's body. A curse on the pack. Under the law of our pack, the Moon Goddess only loved things that were pure. Pure, seamless white hair was the highest mark of divine favor. Our people believed that a person with pure white hair brought good crops, strong warriors, and good fortune to the whole territory. They believed black hair was the mark of evil. They thought it brought rot, disease, and death. Because I had both colors growing out of my head at the same time, everyone called me a monster. The only reason Silas had not drowned me in the river twenty-one years ago was because of my mother, Lady Dahlia. She had been the sweet, beloved mate of Silas Moonvale, the Beta of the pack. Everyone in the territory loved her. But when she gave birth to twins, everything went wrong. Aurelia was born first—a perfect baby with a head of pure white curly hair. Then I was pulled out. My mother started bleeding heavily the moment I was born. The bleeding was so bad that she died on the bed before the healers could even cut the cord. Silas never looked at me like a father looks at a daughter. He looked at Aurelia and saw a holy angel. He looked at me and saw the dirty creature that had murdered his mate. "Pandora!" A loud, angry shout cut through the noise of clattering pots. Martha, the head cook, stood in the kitchen doorway. Her hands rested on her wide hips, and white flour dusted her arms. She stayed three big steps away from me, wrinkling her nose like I smelled like garbage. Nobody in the packhouse came close to me if they could help it. They only touched me when they were hitting me, locking me in a room, or dragging me by my clothes. "Get up off your knees, cursed girl," Martha barked, looking nervously down the hallway. "Lady Aurelia is awake. Take her the hot morning tea and the sweet honey cakes. If that kettle gets cold before you climb up to the third floor, I will take a hard wooden stick to your back myself." "Yes, Martha," I said in a quiet voice. My throat felt dry and scratchy from breathing in fireplace black dirt since four o'clock this morning. I slowly stood up from the wet stone floor. My knees made a loud cracking sound. A dull, heavy ache shot through my lower back, but I kept my face totally still. In this packhouse, showing any feeling was dangerous. If you looked angry, the guards said you were talking back and beat you. If you cried, they knew what hurt you and hit you there again the next day. Keeping a blank face was the only shield I had left. I wiped my wet hands on my apron and walked over to pick up the heavy silver tray. The metal tray was icy cold against my sore fingers. A white teapot sat in the middle, hot steam rising from its nose. Next to it were two gold cups, a small bowl of sugar, and a plate of warm honey cakes with cinnamon. I turned toward the back stairs, keeping my eyes on the floor. "Watch where you are walking," Martha grumbled as I walked past. "Do not bring your bad luck anywhere near the young lady's breakfast. If her stomach gets upset before Bastian gets here, we will all suffer for it." I did not say a word. I slipped through the narrow wooden doorway and started walking up the stairs. The servant stairs were dark, cold, and wet. They went up through the thick stone walls like a secret tunnel. There were no lights or candles here. The only light came from thin cracks in the outer wall that let in gusts of freezing mountain wind. I walked up the stone steps, counting each one in my head. One, two, three... twenty-four. Twenty-four steps brought me to the first landing. Behind the big pile of wool blankets in the locked linen closet on this floor, there was a loose wooden board. Hidden inside that dark hole was everything I had spent three long years saving: forty-two stolen silver coins, a small metal file, a roll of thick string, a small stolen kitchen knife, and a map of the packhouse walls drawn in charcoal. That was my secret escape plan. I was twenty-one years old. My inner wolf had woken up when I turned eighteen but I never shifted, which meant I was completely considered wolfless and weak. In this pack, a female that couldn't shift into her wolf, had no mate, and was given cursed hair had no life at all. Silas had already demoted me to an omega servant, despite being born a beta. If I stayed here, Silas would eventually throw me to the dogs or let Roman kill me for fun. Silas and not dad, for obvious reasons, in case you ask. He is a total d**k. My only chance to live was to climb over the big outer wall, sneak past the border guards, and run into the Dead Lands.