The breakfast table at the Beta's estate was always silent, save for the clinking of silver against porcelain.
Elara sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, her eyes fixed on her bowl of oatmeal. To her left sat her father, Silas, the Beta of the Silver Moon Pack. He was a man made of granite and scars, whose very presence demanded submission. To her right sat her younger brother, Kael, who had shifted six months ago into a powerful, sleek Grey Wolf.
"The Alpha mentioned the Rising Moon ceremony again this morning," Silas said, his voice deep and vibrating through the table. He didn't look at Elara. He never really did anymore. "He expects the next generation to solidify our standing. Kael, you've been training well."
"I'm ready, Father," Kael said, casting a quick, almost apologetic glance at Elara. "I hope to find a mate who can lead beside me."
Silas finally shifted his gaze to Elara. It wasn't the look of a father; it was the look of a general assessing a failed soldier. "And you, Elara? Have you felt... anything? Any sign of your wolf strengthening?"
Elara felt the familiar lump in her throat. She was nineteen, a full year past the usual shifting age. While her peers were faster, stronger, and more aggressive, she remained small, her scent faint—the unmistakable mark of an Omega.
"No, Father," she whispered. "But I'm still training. I'm still trying."
Silas let out a sharp, disappointed breath and stood up. "Training can only fix so much. A Beta's blood should not produce an Omega. It's a blemish on this family's record. Just... try to stay out of the way during the ceremony. I won't have the Alpha distracted by your lack of presence."
He walked out, the heavy doors thudding behind him.
"He doesn't mean it, El," Kael murmured, though they both knew he did.
"It's fine," Elara said, forcing a small, hollow smile. "I'm used to being the invisible Beta daughter."
She left the house quickly, heading toward the Academy. As she walked through the pack village, she felt the eyes. She heard the hushed tones.
"That's her. The Beta's daughter. Still hasn't shifted."
"A waste of good lineage."
"Imagine being an Omega in that house. I'd rather be a rogue."
Elara pulled her hoodie up, hiding her face. She headed toward the training docks where the elites gathered. Despite the shame, despite the whispers, there was one reason she still showed up: Jarrius.
He was standing on the raised platform, overseeing the sparring. He looked like a god carved from obsidian. Elara had harbored a crush on him since they were children—back when their fathers were best friends and they were expected to one day rule together. But as she failed to shift and he became the most powerful Alpha-in-waiting the pack had seen in a century, that dream had become a ghost.
She sat on the edge of the bleachers, clutching her books. She watched the way he moved—with a brutal, terrifying efficiency.
"Still pining, Elara?"
She jumped as a shadow fell over her. It was Miri. Unlike the others, Miri didn't care about rank. She was a Gamma's daughter, sharp-witted and fiercely loyal.
"I'm not pining," Elara lied, her cheeks flushing.
"Your heart is beating so loud I can hear it from here," Miri teased, sitting down. Then her face softened. "He's an Alpha, El. A cold one. You know what they say about him—he doesn't want a mate, he wants a weapon. He wants a Luna who can kill a rogue with her bare hands."
"I know," Elara said, her gaze drifting back to Jarrius. "I'm just... watching."
At that moment, Jarrius looked up. His grey eyes, sharp as flint, swept over the crowd. For a second—just a heartbeat—they landed on Elara.
Elara's breath hitched. She felt a strange, magnetic pull, a warmth that started at the base of her spine. She smiled, a tiny, hopeful tilt of her lips.
Jarrius's expression didn't change. He didn't nod. He didn't acknowledge the girl he had grown up with. He simply looked through her, as if she were made of glass, before turning back to the warriors.
"See?" Miri sighed. "Glass, Elara. To him, you're just glass."
Elara tucked her hands into her pockets, her fingers brushing against a small piece of paper. It was a poem she had written—a silly, romantic thing she'd intended to give him for years but never found the courage.
I'm not glass, she thought fiercely, even as her heart ached. I'm here. I'm still here.
She didn't know that Jamin, Jarrius's twin, was watching her from the other side of the ring. He wasn't watching the sparring. He was watching the way the sunlight caught the gold in Elara's hair, and the way her sadness seemed to dim the very air around her.
And she didn't know that in forty-eight hours, the Rising Moon would change everything. The glass was about to shatter—and when it did, it would be the ones watching who got cut.