My first lesson in the castle came in the form of blood, thick and sticky beneath my fingernails as I scrubbed it from the stone floor.
"Put your back into it, girl," Eleanor barked behind me. "The King wants no trace of her left."
Her, being the previous maid who'd had the misfortune of dropping the King's favorite chalice. The chalice had been silver, ornate, and irreplaceable—a gift from some long-dead ally. The maid had been neither.
I pressed the coarse brush harder against the stones, my knees aching from hours on the cold floor. The blood had congealed in the cracks, stubborn and dark, a stark reminder of what awaited those who displeased the Lycan King.
"When you finish here," Eleanor continued, "there's chamber pots to be emptied in the east wing. Then laundry."
"Yes, ma'am." I kept my head down, my voice quiet. Three days I'd been here, and already I understood the first rule of survival: be invisible.
Eleanor huffed, apparently satisfied with my subservience, and left me to my grisly task. The moment her footsteps faded, I sat back on my heels and exhaled slowly, trying to stretch the cramp from my lower back. The rough homespun of my servant's dress scratched against my skin, a constant irritant I was learning to ignore.
A crow landed on the windowsill, its glossy black head cocked as it watched me work. My strange guardians hadn't abandoned me, though they kept their distance within the castle walls. I sometimes wondered if they knew how precarious my position was—one wrong move, and I'd join this poor maid in leaving nothing but a bloodstain for someone else to clean.
"I'm surviving," I whispered to the bird. "For now."
The crow cawed softly, almost encouragingly, before spreading its wings and returning to the sky.
I resumed my scrubbing, working until my fingers were raw and my knees bruised, but eventually, the stone came clean. Standing with effort, I gathered my bucket of bloody water and cleaning supplies and made my way back to the servants' quarters.
The castle was a maze of dark stone corridors, dimly lit by torches that cast long shadows against the walls. Tapestries depicting brutal battles hung between ornate wooden doors, a reminder of the Lycans' bloody history. Servants hurried past, eyes down, shoulders hunched—all of us striving to remain unnoticed.
I emptied my bucket in the designated drain, cleaned my brushes, and headed to the east wing. As I worked, emptying chamber pots and scrubbing floors, I kept to myself. The other servants avoided me, whispering behind their hands when I passed. I'd heard the rumors—I was the strange one, the scarred girl with no inner wolf who'd been spared execution by Eleanor's intervention.
What they didn't know—what I barely understood myself—was that my survival was more than luck. Something was protecting me, guiding me. First the crows, then Eleanor. As if some unseen hand was moving pieces on a board, with me as an unwitting pawn.
That night, exhausted beyond measure, I collapsed onto my small cot in the room I shared with three other maids. None spoke to me as I entered, though their whispers ceased abruptly. I was too tired to care about their suspicions. Sleep claimed me almost instantly, a blessed relief from the ache in my muscles and the constant vigilance required to survive in this place.
I dreamed of flying, dark wings carrying me over forests and mountains, a freedom I'd never known in my waking hours.
A rough hand shaking my shoulder jerked me from sleep. I bolted upright, heart hammering, to find Eleanor looming over me in the pre-dawn darkness.
"Get up," she ordered. "Now."
The other maids watched with sleepy curiosity as I scrambled from bed, hastily pulling on my dress.
"What's happened?" I asked, voice hoarse with sleep.
Eleanor's face was grim in the candlelight. "The King's maid is dead."
My blood ran cold. "Another one?"
"Third this month. The fool tried to wake him from a nightmare." Eleanor's mouth thinned to a hard line. "Pack your things."
"My...things?" I had nothing but the clothes on my back and a small comb Eleanor had given me.
"You're being reassigned." She thrust a bundle of fabric at me. "These are your new uniforms. You start today."
The implication hit me like a physical blow. "No," I gasped. "No, please—"
"It's not a request, girl." Her voice hardened. "The King needs a maid, and you're the only one I can spare."
"But I've only been here three days! I don't know the first thing about serving the King!" Panic rose in my throat. "Please, Eleanor, don't do this. He'll kill me."
"Perhaps." She didn't deny it. "But unless you want to be thrown beyond the gates right now, you'll accept your new position with gratitude."
I fell silent, the threat clear. Outside the castle walls lay certain death—either from my former pack or the countless dangers of the unclaimed wilderness. At least here, I had shelter, food...a chance, however small.
"What do I need to do?" I asked finally, shoulders slumping in defeat.
Eleanor nodded, satisfied. "The King takes breakfast in his chambers at precisely eight bells. You will bring it to him, tidy his rooms while he trains, prepare his bath before dinner, and attend to any other tasks he requires."
"And if he's...displeased with me?" I couldn't keep the tremor from my voice.
A flicker of something—pity? regret?—crossed Eleanor's weathered face. "Then I'll see that your replacement knows what not to do." She turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The scar on your face—cover it. The King dislikes imperfection."
She left me standing there, clutching my new uniforms, terror coiling in my stomach.
The other maids stared at me with a mix of horror and relief—horror at my fate, relief it wasn't theirs. One by one, they rolled over in their beds, turning their backs to me, as if my imminent doom might be contagious.
I sank onto my cot, my fingers tracing the jagged scar that cut across my forehead. Another ran down my left cheek, both stark reminders of Vincent's betrayal. How was I supposed to hide these? And more importantly, how was I to survive serving a King known for killing servants who displeased him?
By the time the morning bell rang, I'd managed to arrange my hair to partially cover the scar on my forehead. The one on my cheek remained visible, an angry red line against my pale skin. There was nothing to be done about it.
The new uniform fit better than my previous one—a black dress with a crisp white apron, both of finer material than I'd expected. I made my way to the kitchens, where a tray was already prepared with the King's breakfast: rare meat, fresh bread, fruits, and a carafe of something that smelled strongly of spices and alcohol.
"Don't spill it," the cook warned, eyeing me suspiciously. "And don't speak unless spoken to. The King doesn't like chatter in the morning."
"I understand," I murmured, carefully lifting the heavy tray. My arms trembled slightly, but I steadied them through sheer force of will. I couldn't afford to fail at the first hurdle.
The walk to the King's chambers seemed to take an eternity. Located in the west wing, far from the servants' quarters, his rooms were approached through a series of increasingly grand corridors. Guards stood at attention outside massive double doors carved with the symbol of the Golden Moon pack—a snarling wolf's head beneath a crescent moon.
They eyed me dispassionately as I approached, noting my new uniform. One opened the door without a word, allowing me to enter.
The King's antechamber was larger than any room I'd seen in the castle thus far. Plush rugs covered the stone floor, tapestries depicting hunting scenes adorned the walls, and a massive fireplace dominated one wall, its embers still glowing from the night before. Various doors led off from this central room—to a study, bathing chamber, and what I assumed was the bedroom.
From behind that door came sounds that made my cheeks flush and my steps falter. Grunts, moans, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame—the King was not alone, and he was most definitely occupied.
I stood frozen, the tray heavy in my hands, uncertain what to do. Should I leave and return later? Interrupt? Wait?
The sounds grew louder, more frantic. A woman's high-pitched cry of pleasure was followed by a deep, masculine growl that sent a shiver down my spine. Then another female voice joined in, and another—the King apparently had multiple companions.
Just as I'd decided to retreat and return later, the bedroom door swung open. I found myself staring at the most imposing figure I'd ever seen.
Landon Mercer, the Lycan King, stood over two meters tall, his massive frame blocking the doorway completely. He wore only loose sleeping pants, leaving his chest bare—a canvas of rippling muscle covered in intricate red and black tattoos that seemed to shift with each breath. His hair, a deep crimson that matched the tattoos, hung loose to his shoulders. But it was his eyes that captured me—gray like storm clouds, cold and predatory.
Those eyes fixed on me now, narrowing dangerously.
"Who the fuck are you?" His voice was deep, rough, as if he rarely used it for anything but growls.
I dropped into a curtsy so low I nearly upset the tray. "Y-your new maid, Your Majesty."
"New maid," he repeated flatly. His gaze swept over me, calculating, assessing. "Where's the other one?"
My throat went dry. "I believe she...passed away, Your Majesty."
A cruel smile curved his lips. "Ah, yes. Clumsy girl." He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter the bedroom. "Well, don't just stand there. Bring in the food."
I moved past him, careful to keep a respectful distance, though the width of the doorway made it impossible not to brush against him. His heat radiated like a furnace, and his scent—pine, smoke, something wild—filled my nostrils.
The bedroom was chaotic. Silk sheets tangled on the enormous bed where three women lounged, all naked, their bodies gleaming with sweat. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and empty wine goblets stood on various surfaces. The air was thick with the scents of sex, alcohol, and expensive perfume.
"Put it there," the King ordered, gesturing to a table near the windows.
I carefully set down the tray, keeping my eyes lowered, though I could feel multiple gazes on me.
"What's wrong with your face?" One of the women spoke, her tone dripping with disdain.
I tensed but didn't respond, unsure if I was permitted to speak to anyone but the King.
"I asked you a question, girl." The woman's voice sharpened.
Slowly, I raised my eyes to find a beautiful blonde watching me with undisguised disgust. She sat up in the bed, allowing the sheet to fall away from her perfect breasts.
"It's a scar, my lady," I answered quietly.
She laughed, a tinkling sound devoid of warmth. "Obviously. I was wondering what hideous accident befell you."
I dropped my gaze again, heat rising to my cheeks. "It was no accident."
The King moved into my field of vision, pouring himself a drink from the carafe. He sipped it, watching me over the rim with unnerving intensity.
"Come here," he commanded suddenly.
I approached cautiously, stopping a respectful distance from him.
"Closer."
Another step.
"Look at me."
I raised my eyes to his, fighting the urge to flinch away from that cold stare. He set down his drink and reached out, catching my chin in a grip that was firm but not painful, turning my face to examine the scars.
"Someone marked you deliberately," he observed, his thumb tracing the edge of the scar on my cheek. "Who?"
"My former Alpha, Your Majesty." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His eyebrows rose slightly. "You were from another pack? Which one?"
I hesitated, fear coiling in my stomach. If I revealed my identity, would he send me back to face justice for Vincent's murder?
"It doesn't matter," I said finally. "I am no longer welcome there."
I expected anger at my evasion, but instead, something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "No, I imagine not." He released my chin, stepping back. "Tell me, why do you lack a wolf?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. How could he know? I'd been careful not to reveal my strange condition, the absence of my inner wolf that made me vulnerable in a world of predators.
"I...I don't know what you mean, Your Majesty." The lie was transparent, even to my own ears.
"Don't insult my intelligence," he said softly, dangerously. "You have no wolf scent. Every werewolf, no matter how weak, carries the dual scent of human and wolf. You don't."
I swallowed hard, aware that the three women were watching this exchange with avid interest. "She was...taken from me. In the same attack that gave me these." I gestured to my scars.
"Impossible," the King scoffed. "A werewolf without a wolf is dead."
"And yet, here I stand," I replied, immediately regretting my boldness.
But instead of anger, the King's lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Indeed you do. A curious anomaly."
He turned away, dismissing me as he approached the bed and the women waiting there. "Get them out," he ordered over his shoulder. "I tire of their company."
The women's faces registered shock and outrage.
"But Landon, you promised us the whole day," the blonde protested, pouting prettily.
The King didn't bother looking at her. "Plans change. Leave now, or I'll have you thrown out."
I stood awkwardly, uncertain what to do. Was I supposed to physically remove them? Call guards?
The blonde slid from the bed, her naked body moving with practiced grace as she approached the King. She pressed herself against him, running manicured nails down his chest.
"Don't be like that, my King," she purred. "We were having such fun."
He caught her wrist in a grip that made her wince. "I said leave."
She yanked her hand free, anger replacing seduction. "Fine. Your loss." She turned to the other two women. "Come on, girls. His Majesty apparently prefers scarred servants to quality company."
The other women, a redhead and a brunette, giggled as they climbed off the bed, making no move to cover themselves as they began gathering their scattered clothing.
I stood frozen, mortified by the implication and unsure what the King expected of me. He had turned away, moving to the windows to look out over his kingdom, seemingly indifferent to the drama unfolding behind him.
The three women made a show of dressing slowly, casting venomous glances in my direction. When they finished, they made no move to leave, instead settling onto a plush couch, clearly defying the King's orders.
"We're not ready to leave yet," the blonde announced loudly. "We'll finish our wine first."
The King didn't turn from the window. "Maid," he called, his voice deceptively mild. "I believe I gave you an order."
My heart skipped. He expected me to remove them? Three she-wolves, all ranked and connected, while I was nothing but a servant with no wolf to call upon? It was madness.
And yet, if I didn't obey...
"Yes, Your Majesty," I managed, turning to face the women. "Ladies, the King has requested that you leave."
The blonde laughed, a sharp, cutting sound. "And who's going to make us? You?" She looked me up and down with exaggerated contempt. "A scarred little nothing with no wolf?"
"Please," I tried again, aware of the King's attention now fixed on this confrontation. "Don't make this difficult."
"Oh, I think it's already difficult for you." The blonde smirked, settling more comfortably on the couch. "Run along now. The adults are talking."
I glanced back at the King, whose expression revealed nothing but expectation. This was a test, I realized. My first in this new position, and one I couldn't afford to fail.
Taking a deep breath, I spotted a large basin of water on a nearby table, likely left from the previous night. Without allowing myself to second-guess, I grabbed it and, in one swift motion, flung its contents over the three women.
They shrieked as the cold water drenched them, ruining their carefully arranged hair and whatever cosmetics they wore. The blonde leapt to her feet, her eyes flashing dangerously as she shifted partway, claws extending from her fingertips.
"Have you lost your damn mind, you filthy maid?!" she screamed, lunging toward me.