The moon was high and full, glowing silver over the clearing in a spotlight. It illuminated everything with cold light—the earth at their feet, the ancient stones that bordered the sacred circle, and the wolves who stood in tight ranks, their eyes glowing with expectation. A soft wind moved in the pines beyond, heavy with the scent of moss, wood smoke, and the bite of something darker—expectation… and judgment.
Aria stood on the fringes of it all.
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, knuckles bone-white with tension. She was not cold—at least, not from the air. It was the glares. Dozens of them. Some carelessly tossed, others razor-sharp and tossed. All of them aimed at her.
She was the last one left standing.
The last eighteen-year-old to stand under the moon and wait for her wolf to rise.
It was celebratory around her—the victorious howls, the glint of triumphant first changes, young wolves cheered and hugged by family. But now. There was silence.
And Aria.
"Aria Hale," Elder Cain bellowed, his voice harsh and unforgiving.
She flinched at the sound of her name being called. No one ever said it with such affection. Only duty. Disdain. Or repulsion.
She advanced, her bare feet sinking into the hard, uneven earth. The pack parted to allow her through, grudgingly. Some spat. Others turned away as if she was a disease they could get by being near.
The fires spat at her spine, casting dancing shadows on the faces before her. She recognized some of them—pack wolves who'd grown up with her, laughed when she tripped and told dirty jokes in the hallways of the pack house.
And she knew what they thought.
She's the last one. Still hasn't shifted.
She doesn't belong here.
Her legs trembled as she entered the center of the sacred circle, a place reserved for wolves on the brink of transition. Except that she had stood there before—her seventeenth birthday. And the year preceding that.
Nothing had happened.
Just like it wouldn't happen tonight.
Still, she forced herself to raise her chin, to look up at the moon.
It towered over her—ancient, otherworldly, and distant. Their source of strength. The eyes of the Goddess. The bond of man to animal.
Her heart thundered a mad rhythm in her chest. This had to be it. The final time. She couldn't take another year of waiting, being the only one without a wolf. The pack already whispered she was broken. That the Goddess had abandoned her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Oh, she thought silently. Please, just let me change.
She focused on her body. Her blood. The space at the back of her ribs where the wolf should rest. She searched for it—listened for it. Felt for the burn, the crackle of bone, the flush of energy.
But all she found was silence.
No rustling. No spark. No wolf.
She waited longer.
Still nothing.
The murmurs began.
"Still the same," someone said, not bothering to keep her voice down.
"Three times moonlight and nothing yet," a voice called. "She's jinxed."
There was a laugh—short, ugly, and familiar. Talia's. Aria did not need to turn to know that it belonged to her. The Alpha's chosen mate. She had always enjoyed humiliating Aria. And here, tonight, the playing field was open.
"Maybe she's pretending to be a wolf," Talia yelled, her tone honey-sweet. "That would explain it."
The room erupted in laughter again.
Aria finally opened her eyes. Her body was frozen, heavy with shame. The moonlight was no longer warm. No longer a blessing. A spotlight, perhaps. One that illuminated every inch of her failure.
Elder Cain advanced a step, his scowl etching deeper into his creased face.
"No wolf exists," he announced.
Silence fell over the clearing. Not of wonder—just a conclusion.
Aria's lips parted. "Please," she breathed, barely above a whisper. "Just one more minute—"
"It's done," he said, his back to her.
This hurt worse than any words. The way he turned—dismissively as if she wasn't worthy of the air he breathed.
The pack began to disperse. Some side looks. Others outright scorn. She heard one of them whisper, "Even the moon doesn't want her." Another guffawed, "What a waste of a ceremony."
Aria did not move.
Her legs burned to run away, but she would not. Not in front of them.
She would not let them have that satisfaction.
A few of the older omegas lingered at the edges, but they did not speak. They never did. Not when she was shoved during training. Not when her kitchen shifts were doubled and no explanation was given. Not when her rations were halved for no apparent reason.
Omegas did not stand up for themselves.
They endured.
That was the rule.
Her breathing was unsteady as she moved out of the circle, sinking with every step. She didn't even raise her eyes. She didn't see the way someone nudged her shoulder deliberately or the way another shouted after her, "Maybe next year, little dog!"
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
But the aching in her eyes began to threaten.
When she reached the treeline, she didn't go back to the packhouse. She entered into the trees, deeper into the quiet, until scraping paws and laughter were smothered out by the rustling of leaves.
Only then did she kneel.
The earth was damp and chill beneath her. A root broke through her ribcage. She welcomed the pain. It was real. More real than the hurt she bore in her chest.
She dug her hands into the ground, curled fingers raking at the roots like she could tear something from her. Something worth fighting for.
"Why?" she breathed, her voice breaking. "Why not me?"
The moon didn't answer.
Her wolf didn't speak.
And for a moment—just a moment—Aria hated them both.
Hated the Goddess for being thoughtless. Hated the pack for reducing her to a flaw in their
past. Hated that she still hoped… still.
Because that was the worst of it all.
The hope.
The smallest, most fragile part of her still held out for that one moment, she'd wake up and feel it—that spark. That flame. That wolf.
But tonight, that labor had been buried. And Aria wasn't sure if it
ever would.
Not when the moon already had turned its back on her