THE ASHES WE CALL MERCY

CHAPTER ONE — “Girls Like Me Don’t Get Chosen” Rain hammered the servant quarters hard enough to sound like claws against the roof. I woke before the bell because someone was crying in the room beside mine. Softly. The kind of crying meant to be swallowed before anyone heard it. For a few seconds, I lay still beneath the thin blanket pulled to my chin, staring at the damp stain spreading across the ceiling above me. The walls in the omega quarters were too thin to hold secrets. I could hear everything here—nightmares, muffled prayers, bruised bodies turning carefully on narrow mattresses. Nobody went to comfort her. Nobody ever did. In Blackthorn territory, omega pain was background noise. Like rain against stone. Like the distant growl of wolves training before sunrise. Unfortunate. Ordinary. The crying stopped abruptly, cut off the way candle flames die when pinched between fingers. I waited anyway. Silence settled back into the quarters. Then I pushed myself out of bed. The floorboards were freezing beneath my bare feet. By the time I dressed, the rain had become heavier, rattling the warped glass windows while icy wind slipped through cracks in the walls. I braided my hair quickly, tied my apron tight around my waist, and forced my hands to stop trembling from the cold. Or maybe not the cold. The girl beside me never came out of her room. I didn’t knock. That was the cruel thing about surviving here long enough—you learned when kindness became dangerous. Outside, dawn had not fully arrived. The estate rose through fog and rain like something ancient and unforgiving, all black stone towers and narrow glowing windows. Smoke curled from chimneys high above servant pathways already slick with mud. The training hall smelled like wet fur, iron, and blood. It always did. I dropped to my knees beside the wooden floors with a bucket of steaming water while wolves finished morning sparring around me. Alpha laughter echoed against the walls. Boots scraped across polished stone. Someone groaned after getting slammed hard enough into the ground to crack timber. Blood streaked the floor in dark red smears. I scrubbed without looking up. “Careful, omega.” A teenage beta nearly stepped on my hand as he passed. He didn’t apologize. He just clicked his tongue impatiently when I moved too slowly. “Sorry,” I murmured automatically. Even when they bumped into us, we apologized. That was the rule no one bothered speaking aloud. Around me, higher-ranking wolves moved through the hall like storms carried human shape. Large bodies. Sharp scents. Dominance woven casually into posture and voice. Space belonged to them naturally. The rest of us learned how to disappear around it. I kept scrubbing. Mud smeared across the clean boards moments after I finished a section. One of the alphas tracked snow and dirt directly through the water bucket without even noticing. Or maybe he noticed and simply didn’t care. Same difference. By now I could tell which servants were beaten regularly by the way they walked. Which noblewomen hated each other by scent alone. Which guards drank too much before night patrol. Observation kept you alive. Invisible girls learned to become experts at seeing everything. I knew Elder Helena Blackthorn wore jasmine oil whenever political guests arrived because she associated softness with manipulation. I knew the cook watered down stew portions before winter shortages were officially announced. I knew one of the laundry girls was secretly pregnant because her heartbeat changed whenever certain guards entered the room. Nobody noticed things about me. Not even simple things. Nobody knew my favorite color. Not because it was secretive. Because nobody had ever asked. The realization should have stopped hurting years ago. It never did. By midday, the rain finally weakened into drifting sleet. I was carrying fresh linens toward the upper estate when the courtyard gates opened below. Every servant nearby immediately lowered their gaze. Alpha. I stepped aside automatically as patrol wolves crossed the courtyard in formation, massive boots crushing thin layers of snow beneath them. Then he walked through the gates. Darius Blackthorn. The future alpha moved like winter itself—controlled, cold, impossible to ignore. Snow melted slowly across the dark shoulders of his coat. His gloves were stained faintly red from training or hunting or something worse. Steam curled from his breath into the frozen air while wolves twice his age fell silent around him instinctively. He didn’t need to demand obedience. The world bent around him anyway. Everyone feared Darius. I did too. But fear was not the humiliating part. The humiliating part was noticing him at all. I hated the way my attention followed him naturally. The way I catalogued details without permission from my own mind. The scar near his jaw. The exhaustion hidden beneath his eyes. How he rarely smiled during celebrations. How anger seemed trapped beneath his skin like an animal pacing inside a cage. Most people saw power when they looked at Darius Blackthorn. I saw loneliness sharp enough to bleed through. Maybe because I recognized it. He removed one glove slowly while speaking to another alpha near the courtyard steps. Snowflakes caught briefly in his dark hair before melting away. Then his gaze lifted. Straight toward me. For one terrible second, our eyes met. Heat rushed painfully into my chest. I looked away immediately. Omega instincts took over before thought could. Don’t challenge. Don’t linger. Don’t invite attention from things powerful enough to destroy you. Still, my pulse stumbled hard against my ribs. Because being noticed felt dangerous. And because some small starving part of me hated how much I wanted him to look again. “Move.” A servant hissed the word under her breath while brushing past me with a tray. I realized I had frozen in the corridor. By evening, Blackthorn estate transformed into something glittering and suffocating. Gold candlelight flooded the main hall. Massive silver chandeliers burned overhead while musicians played soft violin melodies beneath towering ceremonial banners stitched with the Blackthorn crest. Nobles arrived draped in fur and jewels. Expensive perfumes thickened the air until it almost became difficult to breathe. Servants moved silently between them carrying wine trays and polished silver. The contrast always felt unbearable during gatherings like this. Their world gleamed. Ours cleaned the blood off its floors afterward. I kept my head lowered while weaving through clusters of guests discussing politics and bloodlines. Then Elder Helena Blackthorn rose from her seat. The room quieted instantly. Even at her age, Helena carried power like a blade concealed beneath silk. Silver streaked through her dark hair. Her voice never needed volume to command attention. “It is time,” she announced smoothly, “to celebrate the future of the Blackthorn bloodline.” Applause erupted around the hall. I tightened my grip on the wine tray. Helena continued speaking about alliances and strength and unity before formally announcing Darius’s mating ceremony to the daughter of a powerful neighboring alpha family. More applause. Someone near me sighed dreamily about what beautiful children they would produce. Something inside my chest folded inward quietly. The reaction embarrassed me immediately. What did I expect? Girls like me did not belong in stories about fate or devotion. Omegas existed to serve powerful lives, not stand beside them. Still, the ache remained. Sharp. Private. Humiliating. As I poured wine beside one of the noble tables, two alpha women continued speaking openly as though servants were deaf. “A strong bloodline matters more than attraction,” one said lazily. “Obviously,” the other replied. “Can you imagine tying power to some low-status omega?” Soft laughter followed. Another woman swirled her wine before smiling coldly. “The omegas should feel honored just being allowed inside the ceremony hall.” More laughter. My hands shook once. Just once. Wine nearly spilled over the rim of the goblet. I focused harder on balancing the tray. Breathe in. Breathe out. Retreat inward. That was survival too. Hours later, after the celebration finally began thinning, I slipped outside into the snow behind the estate. Cold air hit my lungs hard. The storm had fully arrived now. Wind curled violently around the castle towers while snow drifted across the mountains in pale waves. Above me, ceremonial banners snapped sharply against the night sky. Gold light glowed warmly through distant windows where laughter still echoed faintly inside. I stood alone beneath all that warmth like something forgotten outside a locked door. For a moment, I let myself imagine something dangerous. Not power. Not status. Not even love. Just this: What would it feel like to be chosen willingly? Not because of politics. Not because of duty. Not because someone higher decided your existence had become temporarily useful. But wanted. The thought hurt so badly I almost laughed. Hope was a more dangerous thing than loneliness ever had been. Somewhere deep in the mountains, wolves began howling into the storm. The sound echoed through the dark like a warning. Snow fell harder around me. And without understanding why, I suddenly felt as though my life was already beginning to change.