Raziela
The King’s compound hated me.
I felt it in every step I took across its long roads. The chill that was constantly in the air wasn’t just from the cold, it always felt something deeper, like the place itself resented my presence. I wasn’t welcome here. I was merely tolerated.
But tolerance was far better than torment.
The servants treated me as if I were either invisible or contagious. Whispers followed me everywhere I went. Most simply ignored me, their eyes sliding right over me as if I were a ghost. But in a strange, twisted way, I was grateful. Their scorn kept them at a distance, and being left alone was a luxury I had never known.
My mind often drifted back to the Bloodmoon Pack, to the life I had escaped. There, the abuse was a constant, physical torment. They called
