Abandoned Revenge

Chapter 2 Alina

The morning of the next day came with an aching pain in my cheeks—the bruises from Garret's slaps yesterday throbbed with every facial movement, reminding me of my place. I woke up in the cold little room under the stairs, my body still sore from yesterday spent on my knees, the straw beneath me pricking my skin through the thin fabric of my nightshirt. The air was heavy with mold and yesterday's smoke seeping through the cracks. My heart beat unevenly, faster—today was the rehearsal of the circle in the great hall, and the entire Blackthorn castle hummed with tension, like a taut string. The Blood Moon already hung in the sky as a huge crimson disk, visible even through the narrow slits in the walls, and its light crept into my thoughts like a quiet warning, making my skin tingle.

I sat up slowly, wrapping my arms around my knees to warm myself at least a little. My hair had tangled overnight, and I re-braided it—tighter, so it wouldn't get in the way during work. The simple gray dress went on with difficulty—the fabric stuck to my sweat-dampened skin from restless dreams. My bare feet touched the icy floor, goosebumps running up my spine and arms. Today, I couldn't make a single mistake. The floors had to gleam perfectly, the tables shine with wax. The alphas would come to rehearse their positions in the circle, and we servants had to vanish into the shadows, serve silently, without raising our eyes.

Ella was waiting in the servants' corridor, her plump face paler than usual in the dim torchlight, her brown eyes full of worry. She held a rag and a jar of wax, her fingers gripping them tightly.

“Alina,” she whispered as we walked to the hall, our steps shuffling over the stone. “Garret's already there, inspecting. He says today everything has to be flawless. And you... have you heard anything new about that bride? About the replacement?”

I shook my head, but inside, everything clenched with cold. Ella's whisper from yesterday wouldn't leave my mind—one bride was seriously ill with fever, they might take an omega in her place. Me. No. Not me. I was invisible.

We entered the great hall. It had already transformed overnight: in the center, a huge circle was drawn with white powder—a mixture of salt and silver dust to contain the Moon's energy even during rehearsal. The circle's lines were sharp, even, several paces in diameter, with ancient pack runes along the edges. The tables had been pushed against the walls, torches burned brighter, thick branches of evergreen plants hung for protection and purification. The scent of pine mixed with smoke from the hearth, heavy and sharp, piercing the lungs. The floor was the same cold stone, but now with the circle's lines, and it had to be polished especially carefully around them to avoid smudging the powder.

I took a rag and wax, dropped to my knees by one of the long tables along the wall. The cloth slid slowly over the wood, wax applied in a thin layer, my hands trembling from the cold and yesterday's fatigue. My knees ached from the pressure on the stone, my back hurt with every forward lean. The scent of wax—sweet, sticky, cloying—filled my nostrils, mixing with the sweat on my skin and remnants of yesterday's wine in the table's cracks.

Selena appeared first among the higher-ups. Her steps confident, echoing through the hall, her dark green velvet dress rustling over the floor, red hair braided in an intricate style with silver threads, green eyes sharp and disdainful like claws. Her scent—sharp spices and roses, aggressive, oppressive, thickening the air around her. She walked through the hall slowly, inspecting every detail as if everything already belonged to her alone.

“You there, in the corner,” she tossed at me, stopping by my table, her voice cold, without using my name, as if I were an object. “Wine. Red. And stand straight when you serve. Don't ruin the view with your slouched shoulders and downcast eyes.”

I froze on my knees, not raising my gaze above her shoes. My heart pounded hard, echoing in my temples.

“Yes, Lady Selena,” I whispered barely audibly, standing up. My legs trembled, knees aching as I ran to the barrel in the far corner of the hall. My hands shook, pouring wine into a silver goblet—thick, dark red, splashing over the edge, a drop falling to the floor. I wiped it quickly with my sleeve, brought the goblet on a tray, eyes down.

Selena took the goblet with fingers bearing long nails painted red, took a sip without looking at me at first.

“Clumsy, as always,” she said loudly so the other servants arranging torches could hear. Her voice echoed off the vaults. “Omegas are always like that. Crawling on the floor like worms, thinking someone will notice them. Or at least pity them.”

She pushed me with her shoulder—not hard, but unexpectedly, with force that made me step back. My foot caught my own bucket of water by the table. The bucket tipped over with a loud clang, water spilling across the floor in a wide puddle, soaking the hem of my dress and her elegant shoes. The cold seeped under the fabric instantly, numbing my legs, the dress clinging to my skin.

Selena laughed—short, disdainful, the sound sharp like a whip, echoing through the hall.

“Look, everyone,” she said, raising her voice so servants in the far corners heard. “An omega in her element. In dirt and water. Clean it up. Immediately. And don't dare soil my path.”

Whispers ran through the hall—quiet, indifferent from the other omegas. No one helped, no one intervened. I dropped to my knees right into the puddle, water soaking the dress up to my thighs, cold burning my skin. I wiped the floor with the rag, hands in icy water, cheeks burning with shame hotter than yesterday's bruises. Humiliation seared inside—small, everyday, in the little things like this push and laugh, but all the more painful because no one noticed, no one protected.

Tom passed by at that moment—one of the young guard trainees, sixteen, reddish hair tousled, freckles on his face, muscular for his age. He carried a bundle of swords for training, threw a quick glance at me—on my knees in the water, dress soaked. His eyes narrowed—not mockery, but something hidden, like a flash of anger or pity. He slowed his step for a moment but then turned away quickly and went to his group.

The hall filled gradually. Young guards placed additional torches around the circle, other omegas polished tables silently, eyes down. I continued working—wax on wood, rag sliding slowly, hands red from effort and cold. Selena's scent of spices and roses still lingered in the air, choking, reminding of her presence.

And then—he entered.

I didn't raise my eyes right away, but felt it instantly, as the air in the hall thickened, grew heavier. His scent hit first—heavy, dominant, penetrating: smoke from a campfire, cold metal, fresh pine needles after rain. The scent filled my lungs, my body reacting on its own—tremors ran down my legs, warmth spread in my chest, even though I stood in the corner by the table, polishing wood. My heart beat faster, skin covered in goosebumps, like from an invisible touch.

Kayl Blackthorn walked through the hall slowly, his steps confident, heavy, black cloak with the pack's embroidered emblem—a wolf's head—rustling over the floor. Tall, muscular, broad shoulders, black hair to his shoulders slightly disheveled, scar through his left eyebrow visible even from the corner of my eye. Dark blue eyes cold, piercing as he surveyed the hall. He gave orders to the guards in a low voice—short, without extra words, his energy pressing the air like an approaching storm, making everyone in the hall instinctively lower their shoulders.

I polished the table harder to avoid looking directly, but from the corner of my eye saw—he stopped in the center of the circle, inspected the powder lines, nodded to one of the guards. The scent lingered—penetrating deeper, enveloping, my body pulling itself, legs wanting to step closer, though my mind screamed "no, stay." Strange attraction—like a threat I couldn't escape, warmth in my chest growing, making my breathing falter.

The rehearsal truly began. Alphas gathered one by one—their steps heavy, energy filling the hall, pressing on the lowers. They took positions in the circle—Kayl in the center, his place marked with a larger symbol. The brides—pre-selected strong alpha females—approached their pairs, stood beside them proudly, posture straight, gazes confident. Selena was one of them—approached Kayl from the side, but not too close, hand on hip, smile light but eyes sharp. She threw a glance my way—disdainful, as if I were dirt underfoot.

The alphas repeated the ritual movements: raised hands, imitating the Moon's call, voices low, growling words in the ancient pack language. Energy built in the hall even without the real Moon—the air vibrated, torches crackled louder, scents mixed: smoke, pine, alphas' sweat. The brides responded—bowed heads in submission, then straightened, showing strength.

I served the whole time—carried goblets of wine, stood in the shadow by the wall, handing them at the first gesture. Selena ordered most often: "More wine here, faster," "Wipe the spot on the table by the circle," pushing me with her elbow every time I approached. Her touches—like blows, humiliation in the little things: a pause in her gaze from above, a light kick to the tray if I hesitated.

Kayl stood motionless in the center, his scent spreading through the hall—pine and smoke, metal, power. When he turned, his gaze slid over the hall coldly, indifferently, but for a moment—or did I imagine it?—lingered in my corner. My body reacted stronger—tremors in my hands, warmth in my chest spreading lower, forcing me to clench my thighs. I lowered my eyes faster, polishing the tray with trembling fingers.

The rehearsal lasted hours—repetitions of positions, words, gestures. Alphas growled, brides responded, energy rising, pressing on all lowers, making us work quieter, faster. Selena stood closer to Kayl, her spice scent mixing with his smoke, but he didn't notice—or pretended not to.

Ella approached during a short break when the higher-ups stepped away to the tables for wine.

“Alina,” she whispered, eyes full of fear, voice barely audible. “One bride is definitely sick. Severe fever, she won't stand. Garret is looking for a replacement among us omegas. You're... young, healthy. Perfect fit.”

My heart dropped to my heels, body trembling—not from the cold water on my dress.

“They won't take me,” I whispered, but my voice faltered, hands clenching the rag.

“If they do...” Ella fell silent, stepping back slightly, eyes down.

Evening approached slowly. The rehearsal ended, alphas leaving one by one, their steps fading. The hall cleaned again—erasing traces, polishing anew. Kayl's scent still lingered in the air—pine and smoke, like a brand that wouldn't fade.

I stood in the corner, hands in wax and water, body shaking from fatigue and fear.

Ella's revelation burned inside—possible replacement, entry into the circle.