The Luna hosted a pack gathering at the pack mansion.

Each guest was invited to share a piece of their own writing, to be judged by the Luna herself.

But the world has always favored beauty—whether in objects or in people.

My older sister, Ximena, radiant and poised, naturally drew the Luna’s attention.

She sat at the head of the table, her aura commanding the room before landing on me. With a soft, sweet smile, she said,

"My sister, Quincy, may not have the strongest aura, but her heart is kind."

All eyes turned to me.

Some of the pack members stifled laughter behind their hands.

"Look at her," one of the pack members whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "How could she even compare to Ximena? The difference between them is like the moon and dirt."

"I heard Quincy’s been clinging to Raphael, always chatting about pack history and traditions. Disgusting. She should know her place."

"One’s a star, the other’s an Omega. Ximena’s mother is the Luna, while Quincy’s is just a kitchen servant, for Moon Goddess’ sake! Of course she’d try to claw her way up. Like mother, like daughter."

I sat quietly, my face impassive.

Years of ridicule had thickened my skin.

Why should I care what they thought?

I adjusted the hem of my dress, my movements deliberate and calm. Then, by chance, my eyes met Raphael’s.

His Beta discreetly slipped me a folded note. I opened it to find two hastily scrawled words: *Don’t worry.*

I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

Then, without hesitation, I crumpled the note and tore it to pieces.

Raphael, your mate had just humiliated me in front of the entire pack.

You didn’t dare stand up to her, yet you couldn’t let go of whatever this was between us.

What did that make me?

Yes, I was ordinary in appearance, and my rank was lowly.

I’d spent years drowning in self-pity because of it.

But I wasn’t the spineless, groveling creature they painted me to be.

So.

I would no longer love you.

I would no longer spend twenty years caring for you, tending to your broken leg.

I would no longer exhaust myself managing your pack, sacrificing my health for your sake.

And I would no longer cut my wrist to save you when you were on the brink of death.

This time, Quincy Morrison would not waste a single glance on you.

The pack gathering was supposed to be a peaceful event, but of course, it didn’t stay that way for long.

Ayra Robertson, the Gamma from the Lycan Prince’s pack, called me forward, her eyes sharp and scrutinizing.

“Is this your poem?” she asked, holding up a piece of paper.

I glanced at it and nodded. “Yes, I wrote it.”

But Ayra’s expression darkened.

“Ximena claims you plagiarized her work, and Raphael has confirmed it. How dare you steal from your own sister and claim it as your own?”

I froze.

This had happened in my past life too.

Back then, I still had some pride left in me, so I refused to admit to the accusation, even when the consequences were dire.

But Raphael had stood by Ximena’s side, vouching for her, and I became the pack’s outcast, my words and poems forever attributed to Ximena.

And now, here we were again.

Raphael stepped forward, his brows furrowed with silent disapproval.

“Quincy,” he said, his tone firm, “Ximena has been working hard on her poetry lately. This is her work. Even if you don’t get along with her, you can’t just take credit for someone else’s efforts.”

I stared at him, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the piercing eyes that had once made my heart flutter.

But now, all I felt was a dull ache.

He had forgotten—or chosen to ignore—that we had exchanged poems for five years in that small town. He knew my writing style better than anyone.

Yet here he was, defending Ximena.

The favoritism was so blatant it was almost laughable.

Almost.

“Are you sure this is Ximena’s work?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Raphael’s frown deepened.

“If it’s not hers, then whose is it? Yours? Quincy, it’s alright to admit it. Ximena is kind; she’ll forgive you.”

Quincy. The name felt hollow now, stripped of the affection it once carried.

I looked down at the ground, focusing on the intricate design of my boots—a pattern Raphael had once complimented.

“I’m not just Quincy,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “My name is Quincy Morrison.”

A flicker of something crossed Raphael’s face—recognition, perhaps, or regret.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

We both remembered the past, the promises we’d made, the bond we’d shared.

But now, it felt like a lifetime ago.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted it back.

Five years ago, Quincy and Raphael met in the small town of Greystone.

The difference was, Quincy and her mother had been driven there by Ximena.

Raphael, on the other hand, was traveling south, wandering through various towns.

To make a living, Quincy took up transcribing ancient pack scrolls for the local library.

One day, when she went to deliver a manuscript, she saw a man standing tall, dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, holding a copy of “The Dreams of the Lost Pack,” which she had transcribed just days before.

The librarian chuckled and teased,

“Here’s the person you’ve been looking for.”

Quincy blinked in surprise.

The man turned to her, his gaze warm and his smile gentle.

“So, it was you who wrote this.”

Raphael Phillips, the Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack, was known for his striking looks and commanding presence.

“Your handwriting is elegant, yet there’s a wildness to it. It doesn’t feel like the work of an ordinary Omega. It’s as if the wind howled through the forests as you wrote.”

He tilted his head slightly, his tone light but sincere. “Forgive my boldness. I couldn’t help but be intrigued.”

Quincy’s cheeks flushed, and she stammered for a moment before finally managing to say, “...Thank you.”

His smile widened.

Raphael stayed in Greystone for a year.

During that time, he often visited the library to see Quincy.

They talked about pack history, shared stories, and debated the meanings of ancient texts.

He brought her flowers, helped her organize her workspace, and even recited poetry to her.

He admired her handwriting, her intellect.

But more than admiration, there was a sense of protectiveness in his actions.

The first time he called her “little wolf,” he said with a hint of tenderness,

“Quincy, little wolf, run freely, explore the world. When you turn sixteen, you’ll truly be free.”

She longed for that freedom.

But instead, she found herself trapped.

Raphael’s “little wolf” was a term of endearment meant to bind her, not to set her free.

She wanted to be Quincy, not his little wolf.

The next moment, Quincy bowed deeply to the Lycan Princess,

“Your Highness, this piece wasn’t written by me. But I didn’t mean to deceive you—I simply misremembered.”

Since Raphael had chosen to side with Ximena, Quincy had no choice but to find another way out.