There was no hope left.

The sound of the party had become nothing but a distant echo, fading lower and lower as Lyra was dragged to the dungeon. She had never been there before, why would she? It was meant for the worst criminals… but now she was being treated as one. No, worse than them, because her punishment was inhuman, cruel, vile. Any living being with a beating heart would know this was beyond wrong, an abomination. But these men seemed to have no hearts, no conscience. They weren’t even wild, because wildness is guided by instinct, and no creature on earth has an instinct as dark as the will that drove these wolves.

Torchlight cast monstrous shadows on the dungeon walls, and when the iron doors slammed shut with a crash that reverberated in her bones, she knew. There was no goddess here, no justice. Only malice. Only cruelty.

In that moment, Lyra closed her eyes and cried silently, begging the Moon Goddess to kill her quickly. She didn’t want to suffer. Not like this.

A calloused hand, stinking of rancid wine, seized her chin with enough force to crack her teeth, fingers digging into her jaw and forcing her to look up.

"Of all the omegas, you’re the prettiest one," the leader’s breath hit her like a punch, hot and acidic. "Lucky us the Alpha threw you away."

The air smelled of death: bones crushed under boots, rust on the bars, and something worse, the sweet rot of despair that clung to the throat. The men around her weren’t human anymore; they were shadows with teeth, eyes glinting like knives in the dark. This was all she could see, the worst kind of monster, the kind that should have been locked in the deepest part of hell.

But they were right here in front of her.

Lyra was thrown against the wall, the impact splitting her forehead in a deep gash. Blood streamed down her face, staining her pale, delicate skin. Someone laughed when she fell to her knees, a groan escaping her lips.

"So this is the Alpha’s rejected little toy?"

Their hands were like spiders, crawling over her legs, waist, hair, claiming territory.

"You should be grateful," one murmured, his fingers snaking around her neck. "The Alpha could have killed you, but he left you for us… to play with."

She tried to speak, but her voice failed.

"Nothing. You’re nothing." The second soldier spat the words, crouching in front of her and slapping her across the face. "Just meat for us to use. Nobody cares what we do to you. Nobody gives a damn."

It all turned into a warped spectacle of fear and pain. They scared her on purpose, made her flinch, struck her, tore her clothes until she was naked, their laughter happy with her suffering. Nails dug into her thighs. Fabric ripped with a sharp sound. Someone kicked her in the ribs, and the scream that rose from her throat was swallowed by a filthy rag shoved into her mouth.

And then…

The smell.

Lyra’s eyes went wide.

But her voice wasn’t human anymore; it was the hiss of an animal cornered and broken.

From the back of the cell, a soldier brought the brand: a searing iron shaped like a broken moon, glowing red like hellfire.

"Stay still, sweetheart." His smile had the same shine as a sharpened axe. "It’ll hurt less. Or not."

When the metal touched her skin, Lyra’s scream ripped through the air.

It was like the sun itself had fallen onto her ribs. Her flesh sizzled, the smell of burning filling the cell, mixing with blood, vomit, fear. She didn’t black out immediately. Her body betrayed her, keeping her conscious for seconds that stretched into centuries, until her mind finally snuffed out like a candle in a storm.

But the darkness lasted only until the next kick to her stomach. When she came to, she was naked on the stone floor, the brand throbbing like a second heart, air scraping painfully in her lungs.

The night wasn’t ending. It felt far from over.

"Now we’re going to have some fun, little omega…" one of them said, approaching as he unfastened his pants.

The soldiers took turns like dogs in a slaughterhouse, each leaving his mark on Lyra. Blood under their nails. Bite marks on her shoulder. Purple welts pulsing across her thighs. She no longer screamed. Her lips were cracked. Her voice gone. Her throat burned. Everything burned. Even her tears had dried.

One of them yanked her up by the hair, spitting on the back of her neck while he laughed.

Another flipped her over with his boot, turning her like a butchered animal.

Lyra wasn’t there anymore. Her spirit floated on the filthy ceiling, watching her own body be torn apart without mercy. She was only meat, only bones, an empty sack where a wolf had once lived.

Until the door opened.

A younger soldier stepped inside, his nose wrinkling with disgust.

The leader, still buckling his belt, kicked Lyra in the ribs. The brand burned again, but she didn’t even flinch.

"Get up, trash. You’re going for a walk."

She didn’t move. Her limbs wouldn’t respond. Her heart barely beat.

"Shit, is she playing dead?"

A soldier threw a bucket of water on her. The cold hit like a whip. She coughed, blood and water dripping from her chin.

"Better this way," one laughed, wrapping her wet hair around his fist. "The forest’s full of hungry beasts. They’ll love a warm meal."

She wasn’t Lyra anymore.

Two guards dragged her like a sack of manure, her feet leaving red streaks on the stone. They carried her out of the dungeon without even covering her, anyone nearby free to see the vile, cruel spectacle.

Far off, Camilla watched. She had left the party after being rejected by her mate and had come to savor the humiliation of the omega chosen by the goddess instead of her. But even with all her anger and envy toward Lyra, seeing her like that made her stomach twist. She couldn’t help but vomit, panicked.

"My goddess…" she whispered, her voice trembling, tearful, terrified. "What have they done to her?"

If one day she displeased Kael, would she be sent to that dungeon too? Despite everything, did Lyra deserve this? She knew the answer was no. But she couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t risk her neck.

When the cart arrived, they threw the omega inside with less care than a piece of firewood.

The last soldier spat on her.

The cart jolted, carrying her into darkness.

She didn’t react. The shaking made her body ache, but she was already used to pain. There was nothing left to break inside her because everything had been destroyed that night. On her birthday.

The sky was covered with thick clouds, swallowing the moon as if even it was ashamed of what was happening. The cart creaked with every jolt, carrying what remained of Lyra. Her naked body curled among filthy straw and rags, trembling more from pain than from the cold of dawn. Her eyes were swollen, her face battered, dried blood clinging to her skin like a cruel reminder of what she had endured.

They crossed beyond the border, deeper into rogue territory, far enough that Lyra could never even dream of returning.

"Hurry up, idiot, dump that thing and let’s get back," one of the soldiers growled, yanking the reins impatiently. "Those rogues are probably watching. I’m not getting ripped apart over this bitch."

The other grunted, climbing off the cart.

"Alpha’s orders. Said she should rot out here like trash."

The second soldier laughed, grabbing Lyra’s limp arm.

With no care, he dragged her over the stony ground and tossed her like a sack of potatoes onto the cold earth, right in the middle of no man’s land—the rogues’ zone. Lawless wolves. Exiles. Fugitives. Brutal and unpredictable.

"Enjoy your new home, little bitch," the soldier said before spitting near her body. "If you’re lucky, you’ll die before they turn you into their toy."

"Let’s go already," the other muttered, holding a torch. "This place stinks."

They climbed back onto the cart and sped off, the sound of wheels fading into the trees.

Lyra stayed there, alone. Her body torn. Her skin branded. Shame burned hotter than the mark on her ribs. She had been rejected in front of everyone, humiliated, punished as if she weren’t even human. As if her only sin had been existing.

The damp grass beneath her skin was her only comfort.

Pain throbbed.

She wanted to scream, but her throat was dry, too wounded. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t even move. She wanted to live, but even that didn’t seem fair anymore. Not after this. She would never be the same. They had taken everything. She was too broken to rebuild.

She looked at the gray sky, where the moon barely shone. Her cracked lips moved in a prayer.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fists pressed to her bare chest.

Silence.

For a second, she thought death had answered. The world felt too quiet, too still.

But then, the leaves began to rustle.

And came the sound.

Then… growls.

Lyra’s blood ran cold.

She smelled earth, wet fur, rage.

Wolves.

She opened her eyes and saw, between the tree trunks, golden eyes glowing in the dark.

"Please…" she murmured softly, breath hitching. "Make it quick…"

She closed her eyes again, body limp, heart pounding with despair. The sound of paws drew closer. Swift. Precise.

She didn’t resist.

Waited for it all to end.

Waited, at last, for the peace of death.

And there, curled in her own blood, she had only one thought: