The King's Shadowed Claim

Chapter 1

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.

Chapter 2

Amelie

The packhouse is a hive kicked by a boot.

Every omega, every servant, every person of low rank is scrubbing, polishing, and running on frantic errands. The air smells of lemon oil and beeswax, a desperate attempt to cover the usual scents of old wood and wolf.

Anya forces a piece of bread into my hand. “You have to eat something, child. You’ve been on your feet since before dawn.”

I shake my head, the motion pulling at the welts on my back. I wince. “I’m not hungry. There’s too much to do.”

“And it will get done,” she insists, her voice low and firm. “But you are no good to anyone if you collapse. He will be here in hours.”

He. The Alpha King. The name hangs in the air, a weight of gold and steel.

I take a small bite of the bread. It tastes like sawdust in my mouth. My body is a single, throbbing ache from Lyra’s punishment yesterday, a constant, sharp reminder of my place. A place I’m meant to stay in, especially today.

“I saw Luna Serilda earlier,” Lena whispers as she rushes by with an armful of fresh linens. “She was screaming at the head groundskeeper because one of the rose bushes by the entrance is drooping.”

“She wants everything perfect for Lyra,” Sara adds, polishing a silver tray with a ferocity that could rub the plating off. “They think the King is going to take one look at her and forget all about his fated mate prophecy.”

I almost choke on my bread. The idea is absurd. Lyra is beautiful, I know that. But she is rotten from the inside out. Even a King must be able to see that.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Anya says, taking the half-eaten bread from my hand. “Royalty does what it wants. And our job is to be invisible while they do it. Amelie, you especially.”

Her eyes are full of warning. I know what she means. My very existence is an inconvenience to Alpha Valerius, and on a day like today, an inconvenience can become a catastrophe.

“I will stay in the kitchens,” I promise her. “I won’t go anywhere near the main hall.”

The promise turns to ash in my mouth less than an hour later.

Alpha Valerius storms into the kitchen. He is a mountain of an Alpha, broad and powerful, but today he seems smaller, constricted by a fine velvet tunic that looks too tight in the shoulders. His face is flushed, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for fault. They land on me.

His lip curls. “You.”

The kitchen falls silent. The clatter of pots and the hiss of the fire die away. All I can hear is the frantic thumping of my own heart against my ribs.

“What are you still doing here?” he demands, stalking toward me.

I press myself back against a wooden countertop, my hands finding the rough edge. “I am working, Alpha Valerius.”

“Working?” He laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Your work is an embarrassment. Your presence is an embarrassment. I want every corner of this house to reflect the strength and prestige of the Blackwood Pack. You reflect nothing but weakness.”

His words are for everyone, a performance of power. But his eyes are fixed on me. He is afraid. The scent of his anxiety is sharp, cutting through the polish and cooking smells. He is afraid of what the King will think of his pack, of him. And I am a stain he needs to wipe away.

Lyra appears at his elbow, a vision in deep blue silk. She smiles, a slow, predatory curving of her lips. “Father, you’re upsetting yourself. It’s just the orphan.”

“She should not be seen,” Valerius growls. “The King’s retinue will be here any moment. I will not have her scurrying around like a rat.”

“Then we should put her where the rats belong,” Lyra suggests, her voice light and musical. She glances toward the small, heavy oak door at the far end of the kitchen. The door to the cellar. “She’ll be out of the way down there. No one will see her. No one will even know she exists.”

My blood runs cold. The cellar is a place of nightmares. It’s damp, lightless, and used for storing root vegetables and punishment. I haven’t been down there since I was a child, after my parents died, when my crying annoyed the Luna.

“No,” I whisper, the word escaping without my permission. “Please.”

Valerius’s eyes narrow. He hates defiance, no matter how small. “Did you say something, omega?”

“Please, Alpha,” I try again, my voice trembling. “I’ll stay hidden. I’ll work in the back scullery. You won’t see me. I swear it.”

“I don’t want to take the chance,” he snaps. He gestures to two of the pack warriors standing guard by the kitchen entrance. “Take her. Lock her in.”

Anya steps forward slightly. “Alpha, she’s just a girl. She means no harm…”

Valerius’s head whips around, his glare silencing her instantly. Anya flinches back, her face pale. No one else moves. No one else speaks. This is the way of things. The Alpha commands.

The guards grab my arms. Their grips are like iron bands. I don’t struggle. It would be pointless, and only earn me another beating. They drag me across the stone floor, my worn shoes scuffing against the flagstones. Lyra watches me go, her eyes glittering with triumph. She won. She always wins.

The cellar door groans open, releasing a wave of cold air that smells of damp earth and rot. They shove me forward, and I stumble down three stone steps, landing hard on the packed dirt floor. The impact sends a jolt of agony through my bruised body.

The heavy door slams shut.

Darkness swallows me whole.

A key turns in the lock, a loud, final sound. Then, silence. I am alone.

I crawl on my hands and knees until my fingers touch a rough stone wall. I follow it to a corner and huddle there, pulling my knees to my chest. The cold seeps through my thin tunic, a relentless chill that settles deep in my bones. Every breath hurts. The welts on my back sting and burn against the coarse fabric.

Time loses meaning. There is only the dark, the cold, and the dull throb of my injuries. The hope I felt yesterday seems like a cruel joke. The King could be a god, but his light will never reach this place. I am forgotten. Buried alive.

Then I hear it.

A distant sound at first. The drumming of horses’ hooves on the dirt road leading to the packhouse. It grows louder, a rhythmic thunder that seems to shake the very ground. Then, the sound of the great horn from the watchtower, a single, deep blast announcing the arrival of an honored guest.

The King is here.

From my tomb, I can hear the muffled sounds from the courtyard above. Shouted orders from a voice I don’t recognize, deep and resonant with command. The shuffling of many feet. The sudden, expectant hush that falls over our entire pack.

I press my ear against the stone wall, straining to hear.

“King Aric,” Alpha Valerius’s voice is loud, strained with a desperate attempt at bonhomie. “On behalf of the Blackwood Pack, I welcome you. It is a profound honor to host you.”

There is a pause. I hold my breath. Then, another voice. It is low, calm, and carries an authority that makes Valerius sound like a yapping dog.

“Alpha Valerius. The journey was uneventful. Your lands are well tended.”

The voice is like nothing I have ever heard. It’s not just powerful; it feels ancient, like the rumble of stones deep within the earth. It makes the air in my lungs feel thin.

“My King, may I present my mate, Luna Serilda, and our daughter, Lyra,” Valerius says, his voice thick with pride.

I can picture it perfectly. Luna Serilda with her stiff, regal posture. Lyra, beautiful and demure, a mask she wears better than anyone.

“Your Majesty,” Lyra’s voice drifts down, sweet as honeyed poison. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the Alpha King we have heard so much about.”

Another pause. Longer this time. The silence is heavy, charged.

“Your welcome is appreciated,” the King’s voice says finally. It is utterly flat. Devoid of interest. It’s the sound of a man swatting away an annoying fly.

The dismissal is so total, so effortless, that even I can feel the humiliation of it from down here. A tiny, bitter smile touches my lips in the darkness.

“We have prepared the finest guest suite for you, Your Majesty,” Luna Serilda says, her voice a little too bright. “And a feast in your honor this evening.”

“My men will see to my accommodations,” the King replies, his tone unchanged. “And I do not feast until business is concluded. We are here to finalize the border treaty, Alpha Valerius. Let us proceed to your study and dispense with these pleasantries.”

The footsteps move away. Valerius sputters something about refreshments, but the King’s retinue is already moving, their heavy boots echoing on the flagstones. Their sounds fade, leaving me once again in the suffocating silence of the cellar.

He is nothing like them.

He is not impressed by their titles or their daughter. He is not interested in their games. He is here for one reason: business. There is a control in his voice, a single minded focus that is more intimidating than any Alpha’s roar.

I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

The sounds of the packhouse eventually return to a low hum, the sounds of servants preparing a feast that the guest of honor has no interest in. No one comes for me. The darkness remains absolute.

I lay my head back against the cold stone wall, the last of my energy seeping away. My body aches. My spirit feels… hollowed out. I close my eyes, trying to summon my dream of the open field, of freedom. But tonight, all I can see is the impenetrable dark of this cellar.

This is my place. Lyra was right. Down here with the rot and the forgotten things. The Lion is at the gate, but he is a world away. And I am just a mouse in the walls, unheard, unseen, and utterly alone.

Chapter 3

Amelie

The cold has settled into my bones. It’s a deep, permanent chill that no amount of shivering can dislodge. Time is a thick, black sludge. It might have been an hour. It might have been a day. The world outside my stone box has ceased to exist.

There is only the ache in my back, the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, and the damp smell of earth and decay. My hope from yesterday feels like a distant memory, a story that happened to someone else. This is real. This cellar is my truth.

A low rumble of voices filters through the ceiling. They are faint, distorted by stone and dirt. I recognize Alpha Valerius’s tone, that booming, self important cadence he uses when he wants to impress someone. He is giving the King a tour.

I can almost picture it. He’ll be pointing out the great tapestry in the hall, the one depicting his grandfather slaying a mythical beast that was, according to Anya, probably just a large, angry badger.

“The craftsmanship is unparalleled,” Valerius’s voice echoes faintly. “Woven by the finest omega artisans, a tradition passed down through generations in my family line.”

A pause. Then, the King’s voice, a low vibration that I feel more than hear. “The threads are uneven. The dye is bleeding in the corners. It is adequate.”

Adequate. The word is a slap. I can feel Valerius’s wounded pride even down here. A small, spiteful part of me finds a sliver of satisfaction in it.

The footsteps move. They are heading down the corridor that passes over the cellar. There are many sets of feet. Heavy, booted steps that must be the royal guards, and Valerius’s lighter, quicker stride as he tries to keep up.

“And this is the armory showcase,” Valerius announces, his voice closer now. “Forged steel from the northern mountains. Each blade is balanced for a true Alpha’s hand.”

“Your pack is not on a war footing, Valerius,” the King’s voice cuts through, sharp and cool. “These are ceremonial pieces. They would shatter against a real blade.”

Another dismissal. Another humiliation. Lyra’s voice joins the mix, sickly sweet.

“Perhaps His Majesty would care for some refreshments? Our kitchens have prepared a wonderful spiced wine.”

“I do not drink wine before concluding my business,” the King states, his tone utterly flat. He sounds bored. Unimpressed by their wealth, their posturing, their daughter.

They continue moving, their voices fading again as they head toward the west wing. Silence descends once more. This is my life now. A ghost listening to the living walk over my grave.

I curl tighter, trying to conserve what little warmth I have left. I close my eyes. Maybe if I can just sleep, I can escape this for a little while. I try to summon my dream, the open field, the stars. But it won’t come.

Then something changes.

It’s not a sound. It’s a feeling. A strange warmth that prickles my skin. A faint current in the dead air of the cellar. It feels like the moment before a lightning strike, when the world holds its breath.

I sit up, my heart starting a slow, heavy drum against my ribs. What is that?

The footsteps are coming back. Much faster this time. Not the meandering pace of a tour, but the focused, determined stride of a hunt.

“Your Majesty, the gardens are this way,” Valerius’s voice is high, tight with panic. “The night-blooming moonpetal is a sight to behold.”

“Be silent,” the King’s voice commands. It’s different now. The boredom is gone. The cool control is gone. In its place is a raw, guttural intensity that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

I hear a sharp intake of breath, a gasp from Lyra. Then, a scent. It’s faint, seeping through the cracks in the old door. It smells of pine forests and ancient stone, of power and something wild I cannot name. It fills my small, dark space, pushing back the smell of rot.

It makes me feel… safe. It’s the most confusing sensation I have ever had.

Then, I smell something else. Something coming from me. The stress and fear must be making my scent glands flare. Wild strawberries. Summer rain. A scent I have always tried to hide, to suppress, because it marks me as different. It is a scent that has only ever brought me pain and unwanted attention.

“What is that smell?” Luna Serilda asks, her voice sharp with confusion.

“It is nothing,” Valerius says quickly. Too quickly. “The kitchens, a delivery of fruit perhaps. King Aric, the treaty documents are in my study. We should…”

“I have dreamt of this scent for a century,” the King’s voice is a low rumble, so close now. It’s right outside the door. “Wild strawberries. And rain.”

A century. He knows my scent. How can he know my scent?

My breath catches in my throat. This can’t be happening. It’s impossible. He is the King. I am the scullery maid. He is looking for a prophesied omega with a powerful inner wolf. My wolf is a tiny, broken thing I can barely feel.

“It’s coming from in there,” a new voice says, calm and observant. His Beta, perhaps. “From the cellar.”

“It’s just a storage room!” Valerius almost shrieks, his voice cracking. “Full of old roots and preserves. The smell must be some kind of… fermented jam!”

The footsteps stop. They are directly outside my prison. I can feel the weight of their presence through the thick oak door. I scramble backwards, pressing myself into the corner, making myself as small as possible.

“Open this door,” the King orders.

The silence that follows is deafening.

“I… I seem to have misplaced the key, Your Majesty,” Valerius stammers, the lie thin and pathetic.

“Open. The. Door. Now.” Each word is a block of ice, heavy with a promise of violence that makes my blood run cold.

“Father, what is he talking about?” Lyra asks, her voice laced with a confusion that is rapidly turning to fear. “There’s nothing down there.”

A low sound starts, a vibration that travels through the floor, up my legs, and settles in my chest. It’s a growl. But it’s unlike any growl I have ever heard from an Alpha. It is not born of anger or dominance. It is ancient, possessive, and filled with a terrifying, protective rage.

He smells it. Through the door, through the stone and the dirt, he can smell my pain. He can feel my fear.

And he is furious.