The King's Shadowed Claim

Amelie

“You are absolutely worthless.”

Lyra’s voice cuts through the clatter of the scullery like a shard of glass. I keep my eyes down, focused on the two pieces of porcelain in my trembling hands. The willow pattern, once a delicate blue, is now a fractured tragedy. A hairline crack I missed during washing became a complete break in the drying rack.

“Did you hear me, omega?” She steps closer. The scent of her perfume, lilacs and entitlement, fills the steamy air, a stark contrast to the kitchen’s smell of grease and old potatoes. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Lyra,” I whisper. My voice is small, a mouse’s squeak in the presence of a wolf.

“Yes, Alpha Lyra,” she corrects, her tone dangerously sweet. She nudges one of the broken pieces with the toe of her immaculate leather boot. “This was my mother’s favorite serving platter. It came all the way from the Eastern packs. Do you have any idea what it costs to replace something like that?”

I shake my head, my long, dark hair falling into my face. It’s a shield I try to hide behind. “No, Alpha Lyra. It was an accident. I am so sorry.”

“Sorry,” she scoffs, the word a puff of air. “Sorry doesn’t mend porcelain. Sorry doesn’t erase your incompetence. You are a charity case, Amelie. A stray my father took in out of pity after the rogues tore your pathetic parents apart. You are living on our generosity. The least you could do is not destroy our property.”

Every word is a calculated jab, a precise strike against the brittle walls I’ve built around myself. She always goes for the same wounds. My parents. My status. The debt she claims I can never repay. My hands tighten on the broken pieces, the sharp edges digging into my palms. A part of me wants the pain. It’s a distraction from the crushing weight of her hatred.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

I hesitate. Looking at her is a mistake. Her eyes are the same cold gray as her father’s, Alpha Valerius, but hers hold a special kind of cruelty, one born of boredom and absolute power. Slowly, I lift my head. Her face is perfect, heart shaped and framed by a cascade of blonde hair. Today it’s twisted into a triumphant sneer.

“That’s better,” she purrs. “I want you to see this. I want you to understand that actions have consequences. Even for someone as insignificant as you.”

She takes a step back, her gaze sweeping over me with contempt. I am everything she is not. Small, thin, dressed in a coarse brown tunic that has been mended a dozen times. My hands are raw from lye soap, my nails are broken, and a smudge of soot marks my cheek. I am a creature of the shadows she was born to rule.

“Maybe a reminder of your place is in order,” she says, her voice dropping. She glances toward the kitchen door, where the sounds of dinner preparations are in full swing. “No one will care. No one will even notice.”

Fear, cold and familiar, coils in my stomach. I know what’s coming. I’ve felt it before.

“Please, Alpha Lyra,” I beg, my voice cracking. “I will work extra shifts. I’ll polish all the silver. I will do anything.”

“Oh, you’ll do that anyway,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. She walks over to the small tack room off the kitchen where riding gear is sometimes stored. A moment later, she emerges with her mother’s riding crop. It’s a thin, flexible thing of braided black leather with a polished silver handle.

My breath catches in my throat. My whole body tenses, bracing for the inevitable.

“Turn around,” she commands.

I can’t. My feet feel bolted to the cold stone floor. The broken platter slips from my numb fingers, clattering loudly in the sudden silence of the scullery. For a moment, the only sound is my own ragged breathing.

“I said,” Lyra repeats, her voice a low growl that mimics the Alphas in our pack, “turn around.”

Slowly, like an old woman, I turn. I face the damp stone wall, resting my forehead against its cool surface. I close my eyes tight, trying to transport myself somewhere else. To the dream I have sometimes, of a vast, open field under a sky full of stars. A place where I can run, where the air doesn’t feel heavy with judgment, where I am not a worthless omega. A place where I am free.

The whistle of the crop slicing through the air comes a second before the impact. A searing line of fire explodes across my shoulders. I gasp, biting my lip hard to keep from screaming. The taste of blood fills my mouth. It’s a taste I know well.

Another strike, this one lower, across my back. The thin fabric of my tunic offers no protection. I stumble forward, my hands scraping against the rough wall to keep my balance. Tears well in my eyes, hot and useless.

“This is for the platter,” Lyra says, her voice calm, almost conversational. The crop lands again, on my ribs this time. I cry out, a choked sob escaping my lips. “This is for your insolence.” Another strike, across my thighs. I sink to my knees, unable to stand. “And this,” she whispers, stepping close, her breath hot on my ear, “is just because I can.”

The final lash is the worst, catching me on the back of my calf. The pain is so sharp, so white hot, that my vision blurs.

She lets out a satisfied sigh. “Clean up your mess. And then get back to work. The pots won’t scrub themselves.”

I hear the click of her boots as she walks away, leaving me crumpled on the floor. I stay there for a long time, shaking, each breath a fresh wave of agony. The tears come now, silent tracks of shame and pain down my dirty face. Freedom is a dream. This is reality. This pain, this floor, this life of servitude. This is all I will ever have.

After a few minutes, the door to the scullery creaks open. I flinch, curling into a tighter ball.

“Amelie?” It’s Anya, an older omega who has run the packhouse kitchens for thirty years. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes have always been kind. She hurries over, her knees popping as she kneels beside me.

“Oh, little one,” she murmurs, her hand hovering over my back, afraid to touch. “She did this to you? Over a plate?”

I can only nod, my throat too tight for words.

“Come on,” she says gently, helping me to my feet. Every muscle screams in protest. She leads me to a small wooden stool in the corner and carefully lifts the back of my tunic. I hear her sharp intake of breath. “These welts are deep. We need to put a salve on them before they get infected.”

She bustles away, returning with a small clay pot and a clean rag. Her touch is surprisingly soft as she dabs the cool, soothing ointment onto my burning skin. I hiss in pain, but it’s a clean pain, one that promises healing.

“She’s getting worse,” Anya whispers, her voice laced with worry. “Her father lets her do whatever she wants. It’s not right.”

“It’s my fault,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “I should have been more careful.”

“Hush now,” Anya scolds gently. “It’s never your fault. A broken plate is a broken plate. It’s not a crime worthy of this.”

She works in silence for a moment, the only sound the quiet slosh of water as two younger kitchen maids begin washing the endless pile of dishes. They steal worried glances at me, their eyes wide with a mixture of pity and fear. They know it could have been them.

“Did you hear the news?” one of them, a girl named Lena, asks in a hushed tone, trying to break the heavy tension.

Anya doesn’t stop her work on my back. “What news?”

“A rider came this afternoon,” Lena says, her voice vibrating with excitement. “From the Royal Pack. The Alpha King is coming. King Aric himself.”

My head snaps up, a move I immediately regret as a fresh wave of pain shoots down my spine.

The King? Here?

“He’s coming here?” the other maid, Sara, asks, her hands stilling in the greasy water. “To our pack?”

“That’s what the rider said,” Lena confirms. “Something about a new border treaty. But everyone knows what he’s really doing. He’s looking for his mate.”

Anya pauses her ministrations, her hand resting on my uninjured shoulder. “The legends are true then? He’s been without a mate all this time?”

“For over a hundred years, they say,” Sara adds, her voice full of awe. “He’s the most powerful Alpha in the world, but he’s never found his other half. They say he’s searching every pack, one by one.”

King Aric. The name is a legend, a story whispered by the fire on cold nights. An Alpha of ancient bloodline, so powerful he united all the warring packs under one crown. They say he is formidable, controlled, and that his wolf has been dormant for decades, waiting for the one scent that can awaken it. They say his fated mate is the subject of a prophecy, a Moon-Touched Omega, one who will possess a rare and powerful inner wolf, a wolf of pure silver light destined to be the Queen of all Queens.

“Imagine,” Lena sighs dreamily, scrubbing a pot with renewed vigor. “To be the mate of the Alpha King. To be a Queen.”

Anya finishes with the salve and gently pulls my tunic back down. “It’s a nice dream for some, I suppose,” she says, her eyes meeting mine with a sad, knowing look. For omegas like us, dreams are dangerous things. They don’t belong in sculleries.

She helps me to my feet. “You should rest. I’ll tell the kitchen master you fell.”

“No,” I say, my voice firmer than I expect. “Lyra said to finish the pots.” If I don’t, the punishment will be worse tomorrow. It’s a lesson I have learned many times.

Anya’s lips press into a thin line, but she nods. She knows I’m right. She gives my arm a gentle squeeze and goes back to her duties.

I move to the sinks, my body a symphony of aches. I plunge my hands into the hot, soapy water, the sting a familiar comfort. As I scrub the blackened iron of a stew pot, the maids’ words echo in my mind.

The Alpha King. Coming here. Searching for a fated mate of legend.

A sliver of something I haven’t felt in years pierces through the fog of my pain. It’s a foolish, impossible feeling. It’s a dangerous feeling. It feels like hope. And in the dark, greasy confines of the Blackwood Pack scullery, hope is the most painful thing of all.