Seen

Maren had been dead for three months, and I still reached for her voice every time the kitchen started burning. "Move the venison off the fire. Now." My voice wasn't loud, but it cut cleanly through the clanking pots and shouting voices of the Ashmark Pack's main kitchen. Elara, a young Omega whose hands were shaking, yanked the heavy iron skillet off the stove. The rich scent of rosemary and perfectly seared meat filled the air, immediately replacing the sharp, acrid warning of burning fat. "Two more seconds, and you would have ruined a week's worth of rations," I said, stepping beside her. I took the tongs from her trembling fingers. "Breathe, Elara. The fire only smells your fear." "I'm sorry, Lena. Beta Theron was yelling about the banquet schedule, and I just—" "Theron yells because he doesn't know how to cook," I interrupted smoothly. "We do." I flipped the meat. A perfect, dark crust. Slow is fast. That's what Maren used to tell me. She was the one who taught me how to read the heat. She taught me how to hold a knife and how to survive the daily chaos of this place by keeping my hands busy and my mouth shut. The kitchen was an absolute war zone today. Alpha's banquet was in exactly three days, a massive gathering where all five Packs of the continent would converge under our roof. I stepped away from the stove, catching a whiff of the newly delivered herbs near the pantry. Too much dampness in the thyme. I pulled the basket away from a passing prep boy, sliding a fresh bunch of basil into his hands instead without missing a beat. "Listen up!" Beta Theron marched through the swinging wooden doors, a leather-bound clipboard pressed aggressively against his chest. The entire room went dead silent. Around me, Omegas instantly shrank back against the prep tables, lowering their heads and exposing their necks in instinctual submission. I kept my eyes down, focusing entirely on the wooden chopping board. My knife hit it in a steady, rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack. "The Alpha requires extra servers for the main hall on the night of the banquet," Theron barked, his gaze sweeping over the room like we were livestock. "Half the staff in the Beta quarters caught a stomach bug. We are pulling from the kitchen to fill the gaps." My knife paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed its rhythm. "If your name is on this list, you should report to Luna Mira's head maid on Friday evening," Theron continued, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Clean uniforms. No mistakes. Alpha Caelan will not tolerate any embarrassment in front of the Goldthorn Pack or the others." Theron slapped a piece of parchment against the notice board by the pantry doors, driving a single iron nail through the top. He turned on his heel and marched out, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him. The kitchen immediately erupted into panicked, breathless whispers. I wiped my hands on my apron, the familiar linen rough and grounding against my skin. Slowly, I walked over to the notice board. There were five names written in sharp, black ink. My eyes bypassed the first four and dropped straight to the bottom of the list. Lena. I stared at the letters. I never went to the main hall. Maren had been very clear about that. The main hall is not for us, she used to say, her hands never stopping their work while she spoke. We stay in the kitchen. We stay invisible. We stay alive. She had believed that. Until the ice took her. I pulled the nail out of the board, folded the list, and put it in my apron pocket.