Chapter 3

Morning light cuts through the high kitchen windows of the Blood Moon manor, throwing long shadows across the stone floor.

Cooks move around the heavy iron stove, barking orders flying at the junior servants. I stand quietly in the back corner, scrubbing silver platters until my fingers turn raw.

The cold water stings my cracked skin, but my mind stays focused. Inside my dress lining, the copied document sits flat against my skin. It serves as a reminder of every lie I breathed in for seven long years.

Today brings the Obsidian Pack delegation. Alpha Garreth spent weeks stressing over this arrival, desperate to secure a new trade deal to cover his hidden debts.

He expects a flawless display of wealth, dominance, and order. I plan to give him something far different.

Around mid-morning, the head steward marches into the preparation hall holding a thick scroll. He holds his chin high, his posture stiff with self-importance as he snaps his fingers at the gathered staff.

"Listen up, worthless scraps," the steward sneers, clapping his hands together. "The Obsidian delegation arrives before sunset. Alpha Garreth wants the main hall set according to the traditional high pack protocol. If any servant makes a single mistake, I will personally throw you into the lower cellars."

He unrolls the seating chart on the long prep table. Servants crowd around to look, but I stay near the back, my sharp eyes taking in every detail over their shoulders.

The steward points to the main high table set on the raised floor. "Alpha Garreth sits at the center, naturally. To his right sit the Obsidian Alpha and his high officers. To his left sit our pack elders. The low servants will serve the outer tables only. Lyra, you take the wash buckets in the lower corridor."

A quiet murmur goes through the staff. Banishment to the lower corridor means remaining hidden behind stone walls, out of sight from any visiting nobles.

Garreth wants me tucked away like a dirty secret, afraid my thin frame and pale face will remind the guests of how poorly he treats his pack.

"I understand, sir," I say softly, lowering my head. My voice sounds meek, submission painted across my face.

The steward huffs, satisfied with my reaction, and walks away to scream at the wine carriers.

The moment his back turns, I step toward the prep table. The seating chart lies open under the dim lantern light. I scan the names, my intellect piecing together the political trap Garreth built for himself.

He placed the Obsidian delegation on his right, directly adjacent to the drafty side doors where service boys enter.

He plans to keep the visiting warriors distracted by constant food service while his own guards line the main exit. It is a crude setup designed to display control.

I need to change that setup. I need to be in that room, standing close enough to the Obsidian leader to deliver my message without Garreth noticing.

I wait until the stewards head down to the wine cellar to inspect the casks. The main hall stands quiet, empty except for two guards standing duty near the front doors.

They pay no attention to me as I drag my mop bucket across the polished wood floor. To them, I am just part of the furniture.

I reach the high table and pull the velvet seat covers into place. Quickly, I shift the main seating arrangements. I swap the high-status gilded chairs meant for Garreth's corrupt commanders with the plain mahogany chairs set for the Obsidian delegation.

I place the visitors directly across from the large stained-glass window where the evening sun hits brightest, creating an angle that leaves Garreth's side in the shadows while illuminating every shift in the visitors' expressions.

Next, I alter the servant assignment board hanging behind the side curtain. I erase my name from the lower corridor list using a damp rag.

In its place, I write my name under the primary pourers for the high table. I swap my spot with Mara, a young servant girl who fears the high-ranking guests.

When I find Mara near the pantry, she looks pale, her hands shaking as she folds cloth napkins.

"Mara," I whisper, leaning in close. "The steward changed the list. You are on lower corridor duty today."

Her eyes wide with relief, she looks at me. "Are you sure, Lyra? He said I had to serve the high table."

"I saw the board myself," I lie smoothly, keeping my tone gentle. "I took the high table assignment for you. Go down to the lower corridor before he notices."

"Thank you, Lyra," she breathes, turning and running down the stone stairs without asking a single question.

Manipulation comes easily when you understand what people fear. Mara fears the anger of noble wolves. I fear nothing they can do to me, because I already live in the dark.

By late afternoon, the estate vibrates with nervous energy. Garreth walks down the grand staircase, wearing his finest dark red shirt fitted with silver buckles.

His Alpha aura rolls off him in thick, heavy waves, meant to intimidate every lower pack member in the room. I feel the pressure hitting my chest, trying to force my knees to bend, but I stand firm inside my mind.

His authority is built on stolen power and poisoned tea. It carries no real weight anymore.

He stops near the high table, inspecting the setup with a sharp glare. He fails to notice the altered chair positions or the subtle shift in the layout. He sees only the shiny silver and the full wine jugs.

"Is everything ready?" Garreth barks, looking toward the head steward.

"Yes, Alpha," the steward bows low, his voice trembling. "The hall is prepared. The food is ready, and the staff stands in position."

Garreth grunts, flexing his large hands. "The Obsidian Pack treats everyone like subordinates. Today, they learn that Blood Moon stands as an equal power. If any servant slips up, I will break their bones myself."

I stand near the wooden side pillar, my hands folded neatly over my plain apron. My posture remains slumped, my head tilted toward the floor, but my eyes trace every exit, every guard placement, and every shadow in the room.

A loud horn blasts from the outer watchtower, its deep tone echoing through the valley. The heavy iron gates creak open outside, followed by the rhythmic sound of armored horses and heavy boots marching across the stone courtyard.

The Obsidian delegation has arrived.

Garreth straightens his spine, adjusting his heavy cloak as he prepares to put on his display of leadership. He thinks he controls this game, believing he built a tight trap to force a profitable trade deal out of rich visitors.

He has no idea that I redrew the entire board while he slept.

I reach into my pocket, feeling the edge of the copied document resting against my skin. My heart hits a steady, calm rhythm.

I step into line with the other high-table servers, picking up a heavy, silver wine pitcher. The trap is set, the pieces sit in place, and the game begins tonight.

Tab 5