– Public Scorn

“Stand straighter,” Dylan said without looking at her.

Sophie adjusted her shoulders. The morning frost hadn't yet melted off the stone courtyard. Soldiers trained in tight formation while the Alpha paced like a restless shadow. Sophie stood silently at his side, trying to appear calm despite the whispers trailing behind her like smoke.

“She doesn’t even shift,” one of the warriors muttered.

“She’s just a ceremonial Luna,” another chuckled. “The real one wears blue.”

Sophie clenched her fists.

A soft voice interrupted the tension. “Alpha Dylan, you forgot your water.”

Fiona approached, cheeks flushed, cradling a wooden flask. Dylan’s expression shifted like night breaking into dawn.

“You shouldn’t be out in this cold,” he said gently, taking the flask. “You still haven’t fully recovered.”

“I’m fine,” she said sweetly. “I couldn’t rest knowing you might be thirsty.”

He shrugged off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

The warriors exchanged grins.

Sophie turned away.

---

That afternoon, Sophie stood outside the war room, holding a scroll of updated patrol maps. She’d spent hours refining them.

“Come in,” Dylan called when she knocked.

She stepped inside. “I’ve revised the southern border watch schedules. With rogue sightings increasing, I thought—”

“I already have new placements,” he interrupted. “Fiona recommended a staggered rotation. It’s more effective.”

Sophie blinked. “She’s not a trained strategist.”

“She has instinct. She saved me when it mattered most.”

Sophie’s lips parted, but she stopped herself. “Understood.”

He glanced at her. “You look tired. Perhaps rest. We need you presentable for tonight’s officers’ dinner.”

“Of course.”

---

The long table gleamed under chandelier light. Sophie entered late—her dress too loose, her eyes too hollow.

Dylan was already seated. Fiona occupied the seat at his right, laughing softly as he leaned in.

Sophie sat at the far end.

“I heard you’ve been taking more interest in our battle archives,” a general asked politely.

Sophie nodded. “Trying to understand past border tactics.”

Dylan spoke before she could continue. “She’s wasting time. Fiona already corrected the flaws in our current formation.”

Fiona blushed. “Only a few suggestions, nothing special.”

“Still,” Dylan said, spooning broth into her hands, “you’ve done more than enough.”

Sophie stared at the spoon.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

Fiona caught her gaze, lips curling into a faint smile.

After the dinner, Sophie lingered in the hallway, waiting.

Dylan passed her by.

“Good work tonight,” he said—to Fiona, not to her.

And then he was gone.

Sophie leaned against the wall, dizzy.

“I’m still your wife,” she whispered to the dark.

But even the shadows didn’t answer.

– Shadows at Supper

“Alpha Dylan of Silverclaw welcomes you,” the herald announced as guests from three allied packs entered the great hall.

Sophie followed two steps behind Dylan, draped in ceremonial silver and white. Her hands were steady, but her heart thudded like a war drum.

At the head table, she paused—only to find Fiona already seated at Dylan’s right.

The Luna’s seat.

Sophie hesitated.

Dylan waved without looking at her. “Sit there.” He gestured two chairs down.

She obeyed, stiffly lowering herself beside an aging Gamma who coughed awkwardly.

“Unusual arrangement,” the visiting Alpha from Greystone murmured.

“Fiona is the honored savior of our Alpha,” Dylan said clearly, pouring wine into Fiona’s glass. “She deserves the place of honor tonight.”

Fiona lowered her gaze with a demure smile. “It’s too much, truly.”

“Nonsense.” Dylan turned to the guests. “If not for her, I would’ve died on that cliff.”

Sophie gripped her goblet tighter. The words stung like acid.

“That night,” he continued, voice soft, “I remember the rain, the pain… and a voice singing. She kept me alive.”

Fiona blinked, lips parting delicately. “I only did what anyone would’ve—”

“Don’t be modest,” he interrupted. “You saved me.”

The elder from Dawnveil raised a glass. “Then let us toast the strength of Silverclaw’s new Luna.”

At last, Sophie thought. A toast to her.

But Dylan barely lifted his cup. “To Fiona,” he said instead. “My savior.”

Sophie lowered her gaze, wine untouched.

Later, long after the feast ended, Sophie stood in the archives. Dust motes drifted in the torchlight.

She pulled the battle reports from three years ago—Silverclaw vs. Stormfang Ridge. Her fingers trembled as she flipped through yellowed pages.

Then she found it.

Patient: Female. Age unknown. Multiple lacerations. Deep abdominal wound. Status: Admitted as “Unknown Omega.”

Treatment performed same day as Dylan’s fall.

She stared at the entry, breath caught in her throat.

No name. No credit.

And Fiona’s record?

Clean. Unscarred.

She sank to the floor, clutching the parchment.

“She wasn’t even there,” Sophie whispered.

The truth had been buried.

Just like her place in this marriage.