"Alaric, she's still your bonded mate. Before you claimed her, she was a treasured daughter of the Nightveil line, a rare-blooded omega pampered from birth. Don't you think this penance is a bit... cruel?"
"Last time I caught Lyra's scent, it was wrong. Weak. Fading. She looked gaunt. Hollow. Her wolf is probably at its breaking point."
Alaric's voice was flat, utterly indifferent.
"We agreed on three full years of penance. Not a day less."
"Besides, there's only one moon cycle left. She's survived this far—what's a few more days?"
Garrick hesitated, then spoke again.
"She came to me a while back. Begging. She only wanted to borrow a few hundred coins."
"The Lyra Nightveil I used to know—the golden omega, born into the highest bloodline—I've never seen her that desperate. Her submission posture... it wasn't an act."
Alaric let out a cold snort. "You didn't give it to her, did you?"
"Of course not. You issued the Alpha command—any wolf who helps her faces pack shunning. I wouldn't dare defy you."
Through the haze of pipe smoke, Alaric's lips curled into a frigid smile.
"Smart wolf."
"Lyra Nightveil is spoiled. Arrogant. Insufferable. Lily accidentally damaged one painting, and Lyra made her grovel as a den-maid for three days in front of the entire pack."
"An omega that entitled needed to be taught her place. And look—three years of penance, and it worked, didn't it?"
His voice dripped with pride. Satisfaction.
As if his cruel experiment had broken me. Reformed me into something more obedient.
Garrick sighed and swallowed whatever protest had risen in his throat.
There were things he hadn't told Alaric.
That day, I had knelt before him.
I had bared my throat in full submission, tilting my head to expose the vulnerable curve where my pulse beat.
"Just five hundred coins. Please. I'm begging you."
"Alaric is sick in the binding den. He needs a pack healer. I'm five hundred short."
The wolves present had exchanged glances—then burst out laughing, their mocking howls echoing off the stone walls.
"Is this really the Lyra Nightveil we used to know?"
"You were so proud back then. Wouldn't wear pelts that cost less than a thousand. Now you're offering your throat for five hundred?"
I could only kneel there and endure it. My face showed nothing.
What expression was I supposed to wear?
Every shred of pride, every ounce of dignity I'd been born with—ground into dust by this brutal reality.