The days after the old Alpha's command were a test of endurance. She slipped into the kitchen like a shadow—unseen, unheard, and determined to remain invisible. The clatter of pots and the hiss of flames became the soundtrack of her life. She worked harder than ever, not to gain favor or sympathy, but simply to survive.
She kept to herself, speaking only when necessary, and never allowing anyone to see the weight she carried. Her world was small—just the cold stone walls of the kitchen, the worn wooden floor beneath her feet, and her sleeping son hidden away in the one place she could trust.
Her resilience was quiet, a fierce ember burning deep inside. She was no one's savior, no voice for the broken. She had no room for dreams of rebellion or justice. There was only one truth she clung to: keep her son alive, keep him safe, and keep herself untouchable.
No one knew the full story of how her child came to be. The whispers and rumors she ignored, the wary looks she met—she let them pass like cold winds. She learned quickly that attention was dangerous. The fewer people who knew, the longer she and her son could survive in the shadows.
Every night, when the household fell silent, she would cradle her son close, feeling his small breath against her skin. It was in these stolen moments, away from watchful eyes and judgment, that she found the strength to keep going. For him, she endured the loneliness, the harsh labor, and the constant fear.
And though the world around her moved on, she remained—a quiet force shaped by pain and unyielding resolve, surviving not by choice, but by necessity.
Each morning, before the sun rose, she was already awake, moving through the kitchen with practiced ease. The cold stone floors bit at her bare feet as she carried buckets of water and chopped vegetables, always careful not to falter. The kitchen was loud and chaotic—a world away from the silence she craved—but it was her refuge and her prison both.
Her fellow maids rarely spoke to her, sensing the quiet wall she kept around herself. She welcomed the distance. Conversation was a risk, a potential crack in the armor she had built. Every moment she wasn't working was spent thinking, planning, guarding.
Her son was growing quickly, a lively boy with wide eyes and a curious spirit. During the day, he stayed hidden in a small, locked pantry she had transformed into a makeshift nursery. It was cramped and dim, but safe. The sound of clanging pots and the scent of herbs masked his cries, keeping prying ears at bay.
She brought him food in secret, washing and warming it carefully, always listening for footsteps. If anyone came near, she vanished without a trace, her body moving like water through the kitchen's maze.
At night, when the kitchen quieted and the household fell asleep, she would slip into the pantry, cradle her son, and whisper promises no one else would hear. She told him stories of strength and survival, not as lessons to inspire others, but as a lifeline for herself.
Every day was a balance—between work and watchfulness, between love and fear.
She watched the new Alpha's family from afar, learned their routines, and avoided their gaze. If anyone noticed the boy, she had ready answers: a niece from a distant village, a sickly child sent away from prying eyes. No one pressed. No one knew the truth.
Her secret was a fragile thing, wrapped in shadows and silence. And she guarded it fiercely, knowing that exposure meant ruin—not just for her, but for the son she had vowed to protect above all else.
Though she moved through the pack's world unseen, her love was a steady flame—quiet, unwavering, and fierce enough to endure whatever came next.
Five years passed like the shifting of seasons—quietly, relentlessly.
Her son, whom she had named Simon Brown, grew beneath her careful watch into a gentle, bright-eyed boy with a soul far older than his years. He rarely cried, never threw tantrums, and often tried to help her with clumsy little hands, mimicking the way she stirred pots or folded linen. His eyes, large and intelligent, held questions he didn't always ask. But she saw the way he looked at her when she came home late, shoulders sagging and fingers raw from the day's work.
He understood more than a child should. And because of that, he never gave her a hard time.
She would hold him at night and whisper softly into his hair, "One day, Simon, you'll have more than this. One day, you'll walk in the sun and never have to hide."
A year after Simon was born, the Alpha's son—Andrew—celebrated the birth of his daughter with his mate, Jennifer. There were feasts and gifts and pack-wide congratulations. The baby girl was hailed as the future of the Blood Moon lineage, cradled in silk and surrounded by blessings. No one spoke of the maid who had bled alone in a storage room only a year earlier. No one dared compare the two children—though they shared more than blood would ever be allowed to reveal.
The pack had rules. Even in the school that boasted inclusion, servant children were not permitted to sit in the same classrooms as the children of the main family. They learned from different instructors, in smaller rooms at the back of the building, with older materials and fewer resources. Their education was tolerated—but never equal.
Still, to her, it was everything.
It was on one of those quiet nights—Simon curled up beside her, his fingers wrapped around the edge of her apron—that the decision settled in her chest: he deserved more than shadows. He deserved a future.
She knew she wouldn't be permitted to enroll him easily. Her position in the pack was too low, his parentage too dangerous. But it was the only thing she could give him that felt like a beginning.
So, one cold morning before the first light touched the sky, she took a breath, gathered her courage like armor, and approached the main house.
She requested an audience with the old Alpha.
He hadn't summoned her since the night he ordered her into silence.
The waiting chamber was quiet, dimly lit by a single oil lamp. When he entered, she bowed low—not out of respect, but necessity.
He sat without looking at her, just like before. "Why are you here?"
"I've come to ask for permission to enroll my son in the pack's school," she said.
There was a pause. His gaze didn't shift, but she could feel the weight of his disapproval settle over her like ash.
"You know better than to ask me that," he said flatly.
"I do," she replied quietly. "But I'm asking anyway. He's five. He's bright. He deserves to learn."
His jaw clenched. "Even if he attends, you know the rules. He won't be allowed in the same room as my granddaughter. Don't imagine some fairytale future for him—he'll never be one of them."
"I don't want him to be one of them," she said, her voice steady. "I want him to have a desk. A book. A chance."
Another silence.
She waited. Every instinct told her to beg, to plead, but she stood still. She would not grovel for what her son rightfully deserved.
At last, the old Alpha sighed—long and tired, as though she were another burden to manage.
"If he attends," he said slowly, "no questions will be answered. No stories will be told. He is a servant's child, nothing more. If I hear even a whisper of trouble—he's out."
She bowed again, her hands trembling now, but still she said, "Thank you."
She left the room with her heart pounding, unsure whether she had just secured Simon's future—or painted a target on his back.
But as she returned to the servants' quarters and saw his sleepy face light up when she walked in, she knew one thing for certain:
Whatever it cost her, she would give him this chance. Even if the world insisted on keeping him behind a separate door, she would make sure he had the strength to walk through it one day.