The Violet Moon

Ariana

“Get up.”

The command slices through the haze of pain. Mud, cold and wet, seeps through the thin fabric of my tunic, clinging to my skin. I try to push myself up. My arms tremble, giving way almost immediately. I fall back onto my stomach with a choked gasp, my cheek slapping against the damp earth. Laughter ripples through the circle of bodies surrounding me.

“I said, get up, omega.” Joric’s voice is a low snarl, laced with the arrogant pleasure he always takes in this. His boot connects with my ribs. A sharp, cracking sensation sends a wave of white hot agony through me. I bite my lip to keep from screaming, tasting the coppery tang of my own blood.

“She’s not listening, Joric,” another voice calls out, thick with amusement. “Maybe you’re not being clear enough.”

“Oh, I think she gets the message,” Joric says. He grabs a handful of my hair, yanking my head back. My neck screams in protest. I’m forced to look up at him. His face, usually considered handsome by the pack’s females, is twisted into a mask of cruel satisfaction. His eyes, the same cold gray as his father’s, bore into me. “You spilled the water. You interrupted the Alpha’s council. What do you have to say for yourself?”

My throat is tight, raw. “It was an accident,” I rasp, the words barely a whisper.

“An accident?” He scoffs, his grip tightening. Tears blur my vision. “Everything with you is an accident. Your birth was an accident. A wolf born without a wolf. A drain on our resources. A blight on the Blackwood name.”

Each word is a blow, as sharp and painful as his fist. He shoves my head back down, my face grinding into the grit and pebbles of the clearing. I can see his father, Alpha Valerius, standing at the edge of the circle. He watches, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his expression unreadable stone. He does nothing. He never does.

This is the law of the pack. The strong rule. The weak serve. And I am the weakest of all. An omega with no inner wolf to call upon, no strength to fight back with. Just a hollow space where a fierce, proud beast should be.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Joric commands. I struggle again, managing to get onto my elbows this time. My body is a symphony of pain. My ribs feel shattered, my head throbs with a dizzying rhythm, and a deep ache has settled into my bones.

“You are a lesson, Ariana,” Joric continues, circling me like a predator. His boots squelch in the mud. “A lesson in obedience. A lesson in knowing your place. Every time you forget, I will be here to remind you.”

He stops in front of me. I keep my eyes on his feet, not wanting to see the look on his face. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my fear.

“You embarrassed me,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet tone. “You embarrassed my father. You made our pack look weak, having such a clumsy, useless thing serving us.”

I risk a glance up. His jaw is tight. This is what it’s really about. Not the spilled water. It’s never about the mistake itself. It’s about his pride. His fragile, easily wounded pride.

“I am sorry,” I whisper, because it’s what he wants to hear. It’s the only thing that might make this end sooner.

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” He draws back his foot. I brace myself, closing my eyes. The impact is brutal, a solid, sickening thud against my stomach that forces all the air from my lungs. I curl into a tight ball, gagging, fighting for breath that will not come. Black spots dance in my vision, multiplying, swallowing the gray light of the overcast sky.

The circle of onlookers is silent now. The show is nearing its end. I can feel their eyes on me, a heavy, suffocating weight of pity from some, contempt from most.

“Leave her,” Alpha Valerius’s voice booms across the clearing. It’s the first time he’s spoken. The sound is final, a gavel striking down. “She has learned her lesson for today. Take her to the healer.”

Joric grunts, a sound of disappointment. He spits on the ground near my head. “Next time, I won’t stop until you can’t even crawl.”

He walks away. The circle breaks. The pack members disperse, their voices a low murmur as they return to their duties, the morning’s entertainment concluded. The pain in my body is a roaring fire, but the humiliation is a block of ice in my chest, freezing me from the inside out.

Two of the warriors approach. They are not gentle. They haul me to my feet, my arms hooked over their shoulders. My legs refuse to hold my weight, dragging uselessly through the mud. Every jostle, every step, sends fresh waves of agony through me. The world tilts and blurs, the edges of my vision going dark. The last thing I hear before the blackness claims me completely is the sound of my own ragged, broken breathing.

I wake to the scent of dried herbs and antiseptic balm. The sharp, clean smells of the healer’s wing. I’m lying on a cot, a rough but clean blanket pulled up to my chin. For a moment, I don’t move, just taking inventory. A dull, throbbing pain has replaced the sharp agony. My body feels heavy, bruised, but whole.

“You’re awake.”

The voice is soft, familiar. I turn my head slowly, wincing at the pull in my neck. Lyra sits on a stool beside the cot, grinding something in a small stone bowl. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles, her silver hair pulled back in a neat braid. Her hands, though gnarled with age, are steady and sure. She is one of the few pack members who has ever shown me kindness.

“Lyra,” I breathe. My voice is a dry crackle.

“Hush now. Don’t try to talk.” She puts the bowl aside and picks up a cup from a small table. “Here. Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

She helps me sit up, her arm a surprising source of strength around my shoulders. I lean against her, taking small sips of the warm, bitter tea. It flows down my throat, a soothing warmth spreading through my chest. I drink it all, my thirst a desperate thing.

“Thank you,” I say when I’m done, my voice a little stronger.

She takes the cup and sets it down, her eyes full of a sorrow that makes my own throat tighten. “There is nothing to thank me for, child. I only wish I could do more.”

I look down at my hands, resting on the blanket. They are clean. Someone has washed the mud from my skin. “How bad is it?”

“Two cracked ribs. Nothing broken, by the Goddess’s grace,” she says, her tone clipped. “And more bruises than stars in the sky. Joric is a brute. He has his father’s temper but none of his control.”

I flinch at his name. “The Alpha… he was there.”

“He is always there,” Lyra says, her voice low. “He watches. He allows it. He thinks it forges strength in the pack. The fool. It only forges fear and resentment.” She smooths the blanket over my legs, a simple, maternal gesture that makes my eyes well up with tears. I fight them back. Crying is a weakness Joric has not yet beaten out of me, but I refuse to let it show.

“How long was I out?”

“Most of the day. It is nearly dusk now.” She gestures to the single window, where the light is fading from gray to a deep orange.

We sit in silence for a while. It’s a comfortable quiet. With Lyra, I never feel the need to fill the space with pointless words. She understands. She has been in this pack longer than anyone, has seen more Alphas rise and fall than I can imagine. She has seen cruelty and kindness in equal measure and knows the value of both.

“You are stronger than they know, Ariana,” she says suddenly, her gaze fixed on me. “Your wolf may be silent, but your spirit is not. Do not let them break it.”

“It feels broken,” I confess, the admission a painful weight lifted from my chest.

“Feeling broken and being broken are two different things.” She stands, her joints cracking softly. “Rest. The healing takes time. I will bring you some broth later.”

She leaves me alone with my thoughts and the deepening shadows. I lie back down, staring at the wooden ceiling. Her words echo in my mind. *Your spirit is not broken*. Is that true? It feels like a lie. Every day is a battle just to survive, to remain invisible, to not give Joric a reason. And every day, I fail. There is always a reason. A misplaced tool. A slow response. A glance held too long. Or, like today, a simple, clumsy accident.

A strange sensation begins in my right eye. A faint itch, a feeling of warmth spreading behind the eyelid. I rub it, but the feeling persists, growing into a low, pulsing thrum. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s deeply unsettling. I sit up, my bruised muscles protesting loudly. The room is nearly dark now, lit only by a single candle Lyra left burning on the table.

I need to see it. I don’t know why, but a sudden, urgent need to see my own reflection washes over me. There are no mirrors in the healer’s wing. Vanity is a luxury the Blackwood pack does not afford its members, least of all its omegas.

My eyes scan the room, desperate. They land on a small, metal tray on a shelf, used for holding instruments. It’s not a mirror, but it’s polished. It might be enough.

I swing my legs over the side of the cot, my feet hitting the cold stone floor. My head spins for a moment, and I grab the edge of the cot to steady myself. Each movement is a careful, painful negotiation with my body. I push myself to my feet, my legs shaking, and shuffle slowly towards the shelf.

My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. I reach the shelf and pick up the tray. My hands are trembling so hard it’s difficult to hold it steady. I turn it over, angling the polished surface towards the candlelight.

A distorted, wavering reflection of my face stares back at me. It’s me. Pale skin, a cut on my lip, a darkening bruise high on my cheekbone. My hair, a tangled mess of plain brown, falls around my face. And my eyes… my plain, brown eyes.

I lean closer, my heart starting to pound against my cracked ribs. The thrumming in my right eye intensifies. I blink. And then I see it.

In the warped reflection, one eye is still the familiar, muddy brown I’ve known my whole life. The other, the right one, is no longer brown.

It is violet.

Not a pale lilac, but a deep, vibrant, impossible violet that seems to glow from within, catching the candlelight and shining it back with an intensity that steals my breath. It is startling. It is alien. It is beautiful.

My hand flies to my mouth to stifle the sound that escapes my throat. A gasp. A sound of pure, unadulterated shock. I stare, mesmerized and terrified, at the stranger in the reflection. One brown eye, the eye of a worthless omega. And one luminous violet eye, the eye of… something else entirely.