The Runt's Burden

POV: Lyra

Flesh smacks against flesh, followed by the sharp exhale of a warrior taking a hit. I stand just beyond the edge of the dirt ring, my fingers curled around the rough wooden fence. Dust kicks up into the air, catching the late afternoon sunlight as two massive wolves in human form grapple and throw each other to the ground.

I watch them with wide, unblinking eyes. It is a pathetic sight, really. Me, lingering on the outskirts like a starved dog staring through a butcher’s window. The sheer power rolling off their shoulders, the speed of their strikes, the undeniable strength in their blood—I want it. I imagine my own feet planted in that dirt. I picture myself throwing a punch that actually lands, sparring and wrestling and earning my place among the pack.

But gravity always pulls me back down. That dream is a phantom. It will never materialize.

For one, I am a woman in a hierarchy steeped in archaic traditions. Female wolves do not train. They do not fight on the front lines.

Worse than that, I am a runt.

The lowest rung of the ladder. A biological failure. A burden to the pack.

"Lyra!"

I flinch, my fingers slipping from the wooden fence. Mabel’s sharp voice cuts through the thud of sparring warriors. I turn to see the packhouse manager marching toward me, her face pulled into a tight scowl.

"You cannot be out here," Mabel snaps, waving a hand toward the massive estate behind us. "You are needed inside right now. There is a mountain of chores waiting, and you gawking at these males is getting us nowhere."

"I wasn't gawking," I mutter, lowering my head as I step away from the fence to follow her. "I was just watching."

"Well, watch something else," she replies, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If Alpha Silas catches you loitering out here today of all days, he will be pissed. I refuse to be the one dealing with his temper."

I keep my mouth shut and match her brisk pace. The packhouse is usually a quiet, sprawling mansion, but today it vibrates with frantic energy. Staff members rush past us in the halls, carrying silver platters, stacks of linens, and towering centerpieces. Today is monumental. It is Alpha Silas’s thirty-fifth birthday, doubling as the tenth anniversary of his rule over the Grimfang Pack.

The warriors outside are training as they do every single day, but inside, the staff is fighting a different kind of war.

"Lyra," Mabel barks again, noticing my lagging steps. "Get your head out of the clouds. We are running out of time. The florist dropped off the arrangements hours ago. Head to the storage sheds out back. Start unboxing the lilies and get them placed in the ballroom."

"Yes, ma'am," I say.

I alter my route, trudging down the servant corridors toward the rear exit. The storage sheds sit behind the main kitchens. Normally, they are pitch black and choked with dust, but today the heavy doors are propped wide open, bright overhead bulbs illuminating the chaos. I never quite understood why the packhouse needed so many separate storage facilities, but seeing the sheer volume of supplies required to host the elite tonight, it finally makes sense.

The second I cross the threshold, the thick, heavy scent of lilies assaults my nose. Dozens of cardboard boxes and woven baskets line the concrete floor, overflowing with greenery wrapped in tight plastic and secured with silk ribbons.

I stare at the massive pile, rolling my shoulders to prepare for the strain.

I grab the first box. The weight immediately pulls at my lower back. My arms shake as I haul the heavy cardboard against my chest, carrying it out of the shed, through the long corridors, and into the grand ballroom. For hours, this becomes my entire world. Walk to the shed. Lift the suffocating weight. Carry it to the ballroom. Carefully unpack the delicate, fragrant blooms. Arrange them into towering glass vases without snapping the stems.

My muscles scream in protest. Sweat drips down my spine, pasting my thin shirt to my skin. But I do not complain. I do not mind this grueling, back-breaking labor.

Anything is better than being at home.

If I were home right now, I would be locked in the living room with my older brother, Caleb. Caleb does not just practice his fighting forms. He uses me as his personal punching bag. He knows exactly where to strike to leave deep, aching bruises that stay hidden beneath my clothes. He revels in my weakness, laughing as I gasp for air on the floor, bragging about his own superior strength. The physical pain of hauling flower boxes is nothing compared to the humiliation and terror of being trapped in a room with him.

Once the final vase of lilies is positioned on the catering tables, Mabel finds me again.

"Done with the flowers," she notes, thrusting a heavy plastic crate into my arms before I can even catch my breath. "Champagne glasses. Hundreds of them. Get them set up at the bar stations. Do not chip a single one."

I nod and carry the crate away. The caterers are handling the massive food spread, but the fine details fall on Mabel’s crew. And we are severely short-staffed for a dual celebration of this magnitude. Hundreds of elite guests are descending upon Grimfang territory tonight. Pack Alphas, high-ranking Betas, legendary warriors. Mabel is running around like a headless chicken, her face flushed red with stress.

"Lyra!"

I jump, nearly dropping a crystal flute. "Yes, ma'am?"

Mabel shoves a box of fragile, intricate glass sculptures onto the table next to me. "Position these on the head tables. Make it quick."

I lift the first sculpture. It is a delicate wolf howling at a crescent moon. The glass feels like ice against my blistered fingers. I place them with agonizing care, terrified that one wrong move will shatter them into a thousand pieces and send Mabel over the edge. I have already watched her scream at two catering girls today.

As I finish placing the last sculpture, I glance toward the massive arched windows. The sky outside is bruised purple, the sun dipping below the tree line. The celebration kicks off at eight and will drag well past midnight. Which means I get to stay hidden here, safe from Caleb, until the early hours of the morning.

My survival plan for tonight is simple. Retreat to the back kitchens. Wash dishes. Scrub floors. Stay out of sight.

"Okay, I think we are set in here," Mabel announces, clapping her hands to get the staff’s attention.

The ballroom is transformed. Soft string music plays through the hidden speakers. The ambient lighting catches the crystal of the champagne glasses and the glass sculptures. The room smells of roasted meat, expensive wax candles, and fresh lilies.

I take a step backward, aiming for the kitchen doors, eager to vanish before the guests arrive.

"Lyra, wait."

Mabel intercepts me. She holds out a bundle of black and white fabric.

"There is a change of plans."

I stare at the fabric, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. "What change of plans?"

"You are working the main floor," she says, shoving the oversized serving uniform into my chest. "We need more bodies carrying trays. The guest list expanded at the last minute."

Panic flares hot and fast in my chest. "No, wait, I cannot do that."

"It is not up for debate."

"Mabel, please," I protest, my voice trembling. "People do not want to be served by me."

I point to myself, desperate for her to understand the danger she is putting me in. I am a runt. In most packs across the world, runts are despised, mocked, and killed on sight. We are considered a stain on the werewolf bloodline. I am only breathing right now because Alpha Silas had a rare moment of mercy when I was born, forbidding my execution. But visiting Alphas do not share his mercy. If they smell what I am, if they see a pathetic, weak runt offering them drinks, it will insult them.

Mabel snickers, a cruel sound that grates against my ears. "Trust me, nobody is going to care about your presence. You are invisible. Besides, I am not asking you. This is a direct order. We are short on staff, and you are going to carry a tray."

I look down at the bundled uniform in my hands, my throat tight. "Okay."

"Good. Go change in the back washroom. Hurry up. The sun is setting, and the guests will be pouring through those doors any second," she commands, patting my shoulder twice before spinning around to bark orders at someone else.

Left without a single choice, I retreat to the small staff washroom behind the kitchen. I lock the door and strip off my sweat-soaked clothes. The uniform she handed me was clearly meant for someone twice my size. I pull the black skirt up, but it sags low, the hem dragging past my calves. The white button-down shirt is a tent, the shoulder seams drooping halfway down my arms. I look ridiculous. I look exactly like what I am—a pathetic mistake trying to wear clothes that do not belong to her.

I roll up the sleeves, take a deep breath to steady my racing heart, and step out of the washroom.

The party has begun.

I grab a silver tray loaded with champagne flutes and push through the swinging doors into the ballroom. The noise hits me like a physical blow. The room is packed. Powerful, intimidating wolves crowd the floor, laughing and boasting under the bright glow of the full moon shining through the skylights.

I keep my chin tucked to my chest. I navigate the dense crowd, dodging the broad shoulders of visiting Alphas and the flowing, jewel-encrusted gowns of their mates. These people bleed power. Their presence makes my skin itch with anxiety.

"Champagne," I murmur softly, offering the tray to a passing group. They take the glasses without even looking at my face.

Despite my terror, my eyes betrayed me. As I weave through the bodies, I find myself scanning the room. Searching. Looking for the familiar faces of my parents.

Deep down, beneath the fear and the exhaustion, a quiet, pathetic hope burns inside my ribs. I want them to see me. I want them to look at me holding this tray, working hard, contributing to the pack, and feel just one ounce of pride.

My family is my entire world. Yet, the painful reality is that my father has not looked me in the eye or spoken a single syllable to me in four agonizing years. He is a respected warrior, massive and proud. And he is disgusted by me. Not because I did anything wrong. But because of my biology. Because I failed to be strong.

I spot a familiar shade of blonde hair near the ice sculptures. My heart leaps into my throat.

"What are you doing here?"

The voice is sharp, slicing through the ambient noise of the ballroom. I flinch and spin around.

My mother stands two feet away. She looks stunning in a fitted emerald gown, her hair perfectly styled, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. But her face is twisted. Her eyes are wide, flashing with a volatile mix of panic and raw anger as she rakes her gaze over my baggy, ill-fitting uniform.

"Mom," I stammer, the tray shaking in my hands. "I wasn't—I was supposed to be in the kitchen. Mabel reassigned me. She forced me out here."

She cuts me off, stepping closer to hiss in my face. "Do not let your father see you."

I freeze.

"If he sees you out here," she continues, her chest heaving with contained fury, "especially dressed in that pathetic outfit, parading yourself in front of visiting Alphas, he will be infuriated. He will be humiliated, Lyra. He will leave this celebration in shame."

"Mom, please," my voice breaks, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "There is nothing I can do. Mabel ordered me to serve. I have to be out here."

She does not soften. There is no maternal warmth in her eyes, no pity for the daughter drowning in an oversized shirt.

"You can hide," she commands coldly. "Go back into that kitchen and stay out of sight. Or better yet, leave. Go home early and lock yourself in your room where nobody has to look at you."

She keeps her volume deceptively soft. To anyone passing by, it probably looks like a mother having a polite, quiet chat with a server. But the visceral hatred lacing every single syllable hits me harder than Caleb’s fists ever could.

My stomach drops. The floor feels like it is tilting beneath my feet. I stand frozen, staring at the woman who gave me life, watching the sheer disgust radiating from her pores.

She holds my gaze, her jaw tight, and seals my rejection with one final, devastating word.

"Please."