Ember had spent her childhood serving the lowest of the werewolf empire — even the Omega wolves, those at the bottom of the hierarchy, still ranked above her.
She woke before the sun, scrubbing floors, tending to the pets of the higher-ranking wolves, washing linens, and standing for hours at a time, trimming claws and filing nails for those who didn't bother acknowledging her existence beyond a command.
By age eight, she had already learned that humans existed only to serve, their role drilled into them with rigid schedules and exhausting responsibility.
At night, she still had school—a place where humans and werewolves shared space, but not status.
Humans memorized laws they would never have the power to enforce, studied histories that only glorified their rulers, and learned anatomy not for their own sake, but so they could tend to werewolf injuries with precision.
It was a system of order and control, disguised as education.
But even within the system, there were tiers of punishment:
Grades mattered. Falling below a certain threshold meant harsher
chores, lower food rations, and stripped privileges.
The most coveted of chores were food preparation and meal
clean up. mostly because anyone could sneak food out easily. And that was a
major temptation because the human food that the werewolves served as rations
came out of cans and were a mash of anything, and you could never tell what it
was.
Lastly, any privileges, if you had called them that, consisted of new clothes every year, the use of a proper bathroom instead of
going outdoors, and even showering or bathing, but without soap.
Chore scores determined worth. A missed task, a broken dish, a single moment of weakness could demote someone to the lowest tier of servitude, where the punishments were swift, and the conditions were unforgiving.
Ember had never failed.
Because failure meant worse than hunger—it meant being invisible,
a ghost among the servants, barely spoken to, barely fed, barely human.
And she refused to disappear.
At fifteen, every human
underwent the ceremonial blood drip into Warlock Zephen telling pool — the
defining moment of their existence.
The test was simple.
The pool's surface rested clear, undisturbed, a liquid so pure it reflected fate itself.
Humans would step forward, slit their palms, and let their blood fall — not so much into the water, but into their futures.
If the water remained clear, their destiny was only: servitude until death.
However, if the water lit like fire, their fate changed forever—a mate bond awaited them in the werewolf kingdom, whether they wanted it or not.
Ember woke before the sun, long before the first rays pierced the towering walls of the werewolf stronghold. The air was stale with
dust and sweat, the scent of damp stone settling in the corners of the servants' quarters. She barely felt the hardness of the wooden slab beneath her—a bed in name only—her body accustomed to discomfort.
She untangled herself from her thin blanket, slipping barefoot across the floor. Silence blanketed the room, broken only by the
occasional murmurs of those who had already stirred. Every morning began this
way: rising before their masters, readying themselves for hours of labor with
no thanks, no recognition, no reprieve.
The Omega wolves, the lowest of the werewolf empire, still outranked every human. Even the most disgraced werewolf had more power than the
most obedient servant. The hierarchy was ironclad, an unyielding structure that
kept humans in their place.
Ember pulled on her worn tunic, the fabric stiff and scratchy from too many washes with harsh soap. She had long since stopped
caring about comfort—it was a luxury for the privileged. With practiced movements, she tied back her red hair and stepped into the hall.
The morning routine was a symphony of quiet suffering.
Humans moved about in choreographed precision, scrubbing floors, hauling
laundry, feeding the pets of their masters—creatures treated with more care
than the servants themselves. Every task was done with speed and accuracy,
because mistakes were not forgiven. A broken dish, a moment of
hesitation—punishable offenses.
At age eight, Ember had learned this truth: humans existed only to serve.
Her role had been drilled into her through sleepless nights and aching limbs, through whispered warnings and cold reminders from those who had suffered the consequences before her.
But even within servitude, there were tiers of
punishment.
Failure meant retribution. Slipping below the expected standards meant harsher chores, lower food rations, and stripped privileges though "privileges" was a generous term.
New clothes once a year. A bathroom instead of the dirt outside. A single, soapless shower allowed at the end of the month. These were
the only rewards for those who stayed in line.
The most coveted chore, however, was meal duty—because it was the only way to steal food.
Human rations came in dented cans, the contents a mash of unidentifiable substances. Sometimes fish, sometimes meat, sometimes… something
else. But working in food preparation meant access to scraps that could be
taken with careful hands, hidden beneath skirts, palmed in passing, slipped
beneath loose floorboards for later.
Then there were chore scores. These determined worth clear through adulthood.
A single mistake could cast someone into the lowest tier of servitude, where punishments were swift and brutal.
Ember had never failed.
Because failure meant worse than hunger—it meant invisibility.
To fall too far meant becoming a ghost among the servants, barely spoken to, barely fed, barely human.
And Ember refused to disappear.
The school bell rang, a low chime that echoed through the corridors.
She had one hour to make herself presentable a pointless effort, as humans and werewolves shared space but not status.
School was another layer of control disguised as education.
Humans memorized laws they could never enforce. They studied histories that glorified their rulers, painting werewolves as conquerors, protectors, divine beings whose power shaped civilization itself.
Anatomy lessons were not for their own understanding, but for their usefulness so they could tend to werewolf injuries with precision, so
they could serve in healing halls, where every mistake cost them more than their pride.
Knowledge was not power here. It was obligation.
Yet Ember studied with a quiet hunger, not for her masters' sake, but for her own.
She listened to whispers, to rumors that slipped through the cracks of conversation, carried in hushed tones by humans who still dared to dream of freedom.
Tales of escape, of lands beyond the empire's reach.
She had imagined it countless times a homestead, where days followed the rhythm of the sun, not the ticking of duty. Where food came from soil and sweat, not rationed trays and factory-sealed cans.
A life where she could decide her own fate.
But freedom was a fantasy, nothing more.
Because at fifteen, every human underwent the ceremonial blood drip into Warlock Zephen's telling pool.
A defining moment.
The pool rested clear and undisturbed, a liquid so pure it was said to reflect fate itself.
The test was simple.
Step forward. Slit your palm. Let the blood fall.
If the water remained clear, their destiny was sealed servitude until death.
If the water ignited, burned like fire, it meant something far worse.
It meant a mate bond awaited them in the werewolf kingdom.
Most humans prayed for nothing.
Because to be 'found' was not freedom.
It was another kind of prison one woven from obedience and primal magic, where refusal was not an option.
And Ember was next.
Her pulse hammered as she stepped onto the ceremonial platform, the ancient stone cold beneath her bare feet.
The warlock stood in silence, his skeletal frame draped in silver-threaded robes, his piercing gaze fixed on her.
She barely heard the murmurs, the low hum of anticipation among the werewolves watching.
Her fingers trembled against the blade as she pressed it to her palm.
A shallow cut. A single drop.
And then— Fire.
The pool erupted in color, burning brighter than anyone else's before.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
The warlock's face showed a moment of shake then regained its impassive form as he stepped forward, reaching for the silver headpiece the binding marker of those found.
Ember's breath caught as he placed it upon her head, the weight of the pendant pressing against her skull.
It was done.
Her fate was decided.
And as reality crashed down around her, she knew every plan she had made, every whispered escape through the northern forests, every dream of freedom in the wilderness—was gone.
Her hands clenched at her sides, holding back tears she could not afford to shed.
She would not escape now.
Not when every move she made would be known.
Not when she belonged to them.