Constance's Power

Chapter 6. Chained to the Mundane

Constance woke to the chilly, unforgiving stone under her. For a moment, she wasn't sure where she was. Hunger, dread, and exhaustion clouded her mind. Her body was bruised and sore from what she had been through, and her muscles hurt from sleeping on the hard ground. Shivering in the chill, she wrapped her arms around herself tightly. The distant sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, sending a shiver down her spine.

Panic bubbled up in her throat. Was this it? Were they finally coming for her? She thought about Alpha Aiden and the terrifying look in his eyes, the way he had coldly discussed her lack of a wolf. The prophecy came up in their conversation, but she still didn't understand it. All she knew was that her very existence, her inability to shift, put her in a dangerous position. Maybe today would be the day they decided her fate.

Her cell door swung open, and a guard entered. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His eyes passed over her. "Get up," he told her and looked away.

Constance stared up at him; her body was stagnant and stiff. She was ready for chains, punishment, or anything else but this calm, authoritative presence. She tried to get her bearings, and her head whirled. With her legs trembling beneath her, she pushed herself up to her feet.

Turning, the guard moved back into the corridor. He said, "Follow me."

'What's going on? Can you at least give me a hint if I'm about to be killed?' Constance screamed inside her head, but her body silently followed the guard.

Constance stopped for a moment; doubt was wriggling her gut. What could they possibly want from her now? She had been questioned and humiliated, but they had not yet killed her. She took a deep breath and moved forward. Her bare feet gliding over the cold stone as she trailed behind him through the narrow corridor.

Footsteps, voices, and the odd clatter of dishes started to get louder when they walked through the twisting hallways of the packhouse. Are these the last sounds I’ll ever hear?

With each step, her anxiety spiked. The nearer they got to the main area, the more out of place she felt. Her strange uniqueness began to feel like a heavy burden.

Finally, they reached a spacious open area. Wolves were rushing over the territory, some bringing supplies, and others engaged in quiet conversations. This was a life she had nearly forgotten—the everyday reality of the pack, a life so distant from her own.

She noticed the high, forbidding walls were covered in flags bearing the Nightshade Pack emblem—a crescent moon wrapped by thorny vines.

Her guard gave her a little cleaning kit.

'What? What should I do? Why do you give me this?' Constance glared at the basket so intensely, it was as if her stare could set it ablaze.

"You'll be cleaning," the guard remarked. His voice was flat. "You are not leaving the packhouse until specifically directed. Work and stay out of trouble."

Constance felt her breath catch. Cleaning? Among all she was expecting, this was not it. She had once seen herself as a Luna, guiding the pack with elegance and power alongside Keen. Now, she was nothing more than a prisoner, condemned to scrub floors for a pack that deemed her weak.

But being captive is better than being a proud corpse.

Constance grabbed the bucket and mop tightly. She forced down the swirl of emotions threatening to spill over as the guard glanced at her.

"What are you waiting for? Get started," he turned and left her.

She glanced around the bustling packhouse. Though she could feel a few curious stares, nobody seemed to really pay her any mind. She wondered what they knew about her—if they had heard about her rejection by Keen, her wolflessness, or the unusual prophecy that now seemed to hang over her head.

Constance dropped the mop into the bucket to wring out some of the excess water before starting to scrub the floor. Keeping her head down, she focused on her work, trying to push away the fear creeping in. Every stroke made her muscles ache, but ihard work gave her mind an excellent opportunity to consider her situation.

As hours passed, her arms hurt from the load, and her back protested. She used her sleeve to wipe the sweat off her face. The floor gleamed beneath her, but the weight of her situation dampened any joy of finishing her work.

Constance caught snippets of conversation between two passing wolves. She tried to catch their words and pretended she was too busy with the dirt on the floor to listen.

"...Alpha Aiden's commands." One of them remarked, his voice quiet but pointed, "He's keeping an eye on her."

The other wolf laughed off it. ” One without a wolf? She could not know what to do. She is not a threat.”

"She is an outsider," the first wolf said. "That's all the Alpha needs to consider her dangerous."

Constance's grip on the mop handle tightened until her knuckles turned white. To them, she was hardly more than a nuisance—a frail girl without a pack, lost in their territory. But if what Alpha Aiden had stated were true, the story went beyond what she knew.

Constance could not get rid of the mounting fear. How much longer could she walk, breathe, or even hope to live? For now, that was all she could manage. Every encounter with the wolves of the Nightshade Pack made it painfully clear that her presence was barely tolerated, and that could change in an instant.

Her body was drained with exhaustion by the time she was returned to her cell. Her new reality pressed down on her, and she fell onto the rough stone floor, curling up into a ball. Though she knew her place in this pack was far from safe, cleaning seemed to be her temporary reprieve from execution.

With her eyes heavy from exhaustion, Constance made a silent vow in that dim space: no matter what happened, she would survive. She would find her place in this cruel world, figure out what the prophecy meant, and if luck was on her side—just maybe—she would still be alive.