Property of the Kings: The Scorned Fae's Primal Claim

Nova's Pov The smell of stale bleach and old grime clung to the damp cloth in my hand. My knees ached, pressed hard against the cold, cracked tile of the washroom. I scrubbed, hunched over, trying to disappear into the task. Disappearing was what I did best. Nova Hayes. Twenty-one years old, and the most invisible Fae in the Ghetto. It was a small, miserable corner of the world we called the Hollow, trapped between the towering, unforgiving territories of the Lycans and the Werewolves. Here, everything was grey, the sky, the mood, the worn-out robes we all wore. But I was different, marked by a quiet strangeness that made me easy to despise. My hair wasn't the usual Ghetto brown or red; it was a strange, pale silver-white that caught the dim light, and my eyes were a completely vivid amethyst. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was the mark. I tugged the sleeve of my robe down, covering the pale, inner curve of my right wrist. Most species received their Mate Mark, if they had one, on their chest—a symbol that only fully appeared when they met their counterpart. Mine was incomplete, a half-formed, delicate spiral, and it was in the wrong place. It made me look incomplete, like a broken thing. The Elders and the community saw it as proof of what I truly was: magically weak, useless, and, worst of all, an abomination. A shadow fell over me. I froze, my hand still on the dirty tile. “Still crawling on the floor, Hayes?” The voice was Elara’s, the Head Maid and the self-appointed Queen of the Ghetto’s social hierarchy. She stood above me, her expression a mix of disgust and triumph. I kept my head down. “Just finishing up, Elara.” She let out a short, rough laugh. Then, I felt something warm and damp hit my shoulder. I didn't need to look up to know she'd spat on me. “Try to scrub the fear off you, you pathetic thing,” she scoffed, her voice low enough that only I could hear. “You reek of it. No wonder the world is still fractured when we breed such meek dirt. Get out of my sight.” She walked past, the heavy swish of her clean robe a final insult. I didn't move until I heard the door click shut. The spit felt like acid, but the words were worse. Meek dirt. She was right. I was terrified of everything: the guards, the starvation, the sound of a Lycan patrol too close to the perimeter. And I was completely alone. I had no friends here. My unique appearance and known feebleness ensured that. The only person who ever saw past the shame and the fear was my brother, Silas. I finished the tiles, my hands trembling. I needed to get back to him. The small, dark room I shared with Silas was quiet. He lay on our straw pallet, his breath shallow. The wound from the Coven raid three days ago was clean, but the fever hadn't broken. “Nova, are the Elders still looking for you?” Silas’s voice was a dry rasp. I knelt beside him, running my fingers through his dark, sweaty hair. “Don’t worry about them, Silas. Just sleep.” “They’ll send someone for the supply run. It’s overdue. It always goes to someone... disposable.” He gripped my hand, his eyes wide with desperate strength. “They were meant to choose me. I’m stronger, Nova. They know Fae rarely come back from the Werewolf territory. The Alpha King takes them as slaves, or worse.” His fear mirrored mine exactly. The hatred between the species wasn't just old history; it was a daily reality enforced by the brute strength of the Werewolves, Lycans, and Vampires. We Fae were the easy victims, always paying a price in supplies, labor, or lives just to keep the fragile peace and survive. A sudden, sharp knock on our door made me jump. “Nova Hayes! The Elders command your immediate presence!” It was Vivianna, the Fae Elder who spoke the loudest about my supposed curse. I pressed my lips to Silas’s forehead, already preparing myself. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” The Council chamber was a stuffy, oppressive space. The Elders, a group of five old, withered Fae, stared at me with the cold, assessing gaze I knew too well. They didn't see a person; they saw a commodity. Vivianna, her face pinched, leaned forward. “The Werewolf Clan has issued a final warning, Nova. They require the annual shipment of medicinal herbs and purified water immediately. Our window is closing.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Who is going, Elder?” “Silas was the initial carrier,” another Elder stated simply. “But he is… compromised.” I swallowed, the air thick and heavy. “Then send Gareth. He is young and quick. He has strong magic.” Vivianna scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Gareth is a valuable asset. We do not risk assets. This is not a delivery, Nova. This is a payment. A sacrifice.” The word hung in the air: sacrifice. “You will go, Nova,” Vivianna said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You are the safest choice. You are the only choice. You have the least magic; your scent will be the weakest, the least tempting to the beasts. If they take you, the Ghetto loses nothing of value.” The brutal honesty cut deeper than Elara’s spit. Nothing of value. That was my worth: zero. I wanted to scream, to weep, to tell them they were sending me to my death, but the only sound that escaped was a shaky breath. I saw it all flash before my eyes: the massive, fortified Packhouse, the cold, unforgiving eyes of the Werewolf Alpha King, Riccardo Rexus, the feel of rough hands dragging me away, the sudden, absolute enslavement. “If I refuse?” The question was barely audible. Vivianna’s eyes narrowed. “Then the Werewolf King will send his entire Alpha Guard to collect. They will take the supplies, burn our storehouse, and take everyone they choose as slaves. And Silas will not receive any more medicine from our stores. His fate will be on your head.” It was a cold, calculated move. My brother's life for my own freedom. There was no choice at all. If I have to give my life so that Silas will live then I have no voice, He has always been there, helping me out from troubles and saving me, then I will do the same. “I will go,” I said, my voice thin but steady. “I will take the shipment.” I walked out with my head bowed down, I need to start packing for my death, it will be a miracle if I eventually return. It took me less than an hour to pack. There was nothing to pack but the fear that sat like a stone in my stomach. Silas, looking slightly better from a dose of emergency tincture, tried to sit up as I wrapped a clean scarf tightly around the mark on my wrist, hiding the incomplete spiral. “Nova, please. You can’t. They’ll keep you. They always keep the Fae.” He tried to reach for me, but his arm fell back weakly. I forced a brittle smile. “I’m just delivering herbs, Silas. I’m the best choice, remember? No one even sees me.” I knelt by his side, gripping his hand so tight my knuckles ached. “I will come back for you. Stay alive. I need you to stay alive.” He saw the lie in my eyes, the certainty that this was my last goodbye and his own eyes filled with tears. “Nova…” “Hush. I love you, Silas.” I looked at him with so much pain and love, I am worthless to the Ghetto, but I am the shield that protects you. They sent me because I am disposable. But my death keeps you safe. I turned around and walked out to my doom. The heavy, sealed cart, barely holding the meager supply, waited outside the gate. I grasped the rough wooden handles, the metal cold and biting in the twilight air. Beyond the low, cracked wall of the Hollow, the true world waited—a world ruled by brutality, deep-seated hatred, and dangerous kings. I pulled the cart, stepping out of the familiar shadows and into the looming dark, fully consumed by the dread that I was walking straight into s*****y and, perhaps, my absolute demise at the hands of the savage Werewolf King, Riccardo Rexus.