Chapter 2

The night had barely faded when Celeste Evernight stepped out into the chill of early dawn. The pack grounds lay cloaked in a cold mist that snaked around the rugged paths and crumbling stone. Even as the pale light struggled to push back the darkness, Celeste's inner flame—her mysterious, latent power—flickered at the edges of her vision, a silent promise of something greater hidden deep within her.

She walked alone along the perimeter of Blackridge territory, her steps measured yet hurried, as though each footfall carried the weight of a destiny yet unfulfilled. The crisp air cut through her like shards of ice, and the quiet that blanketed the grounds was broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant stir of pack life beginning anew. In her solitude, Celeste's thoughts turned inward, each one filled with both sorrow and a daring hope that one day fate would grant her a mate who could see past the whispers of her cursed lineage.

As she neared a cluster of weathered stone structures where the pack usually gathered, voices carried on the wind. A small group of pack members huddled by a doorway, their faces twisted in sneers and their eyes alight with cruelty. Their hushed conversation was punctuated by harsh laughter and biting remarks.

"Look at her," one muttered, his tone laced with disdain. "A shadow of a woman, cursed from birth." Another scoffed, "She's nothing but a mistake. No true mate will ever choose a creature like her."

Celeste paused. Her heart pounded as the words struck like lashes. She kept her head down and quickened her pace, each step a reminder of how deeply she was marked by their contempt. Even as the insults left invisible scars, a quiet determination burned inside her. In the midst of humiliation, she clung to the hope that destiny might someday reveal a mate who would see the strength hidden within her.

Later, when the pack began its morning routines, Celeste found herself forced into the center of activity. The ground was littered with scattered preparations for the day—broken branches, discarded scraps of cloth, and the echoing commands of those who held power.

A senior guard barked an order at her, "Get those logs over there, outcast. And do not dawdle!" His tone was as rough as the jagged rocks surrounding the grounds, and his eyes glared at her with open disgust. Celeste's hands trembled as she struggled with a log far too heavy for her slender frame, each grunt and haughty look from her fellow pack members reinforcing her lowly status.

It was then that a cold, clipped voice cut through the clamor. "Is that all you can manage, Celeste?" Rafe Aldric, the pack's formidable Alpha, stepped into view. His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of her struggling.

Celeste's cheeks burned with shame as she lowered her gaze. "I—I'm doing my best, sir," she whispered.

Rafe's jaw clenched, and his tone turned icy. "Your best is utterly inadequate, outcast. I do not tolerate weakness here." His words struck with the force of a command—uncompromising and brutal.

The onlookers fell silent, their eyes flickering between the Alpha and the one he so disdainfully addressed. In that moment, Celeste's heart pounded with a mix of humiliation and a stubborn spark of hope; deep inside, she believed that destiny might yet forge a bond to redeem her.

As the day pressed on, Celeste navigated a labyrinth of daily humiliations. In the marketplace, traders sneered at her; on the training ground, every misstep was met with mocking whispers. With each slight, her spirit was battered further, yet the legend of the mate bond remained her solitary solace—a promise that somewhere, someone might one day see past her cursed lineage and recognize the power she barely dared to believe was hers.

In a quiet moment of respite near the edge of the pack's territory, Celeste leaned against a gnarled tree and closed her eyes, listening to the soft murmur of a distant brook.

"Maybe someday I will find him," she thought, her inner voice trembling with both hope and sorrow. "Maybe he will see the strength I carry. I am not merely a cursed soul—I am destined for something greater."

Later that day, while seeking a brief solace in a quiet corner of the grounds, Celeste's reverie was interrupted by a firm tap on her shoulder.

Turning slowly, she found Rafe standing before her. His expression was cold and unreadable, his eyes dark with disdain.

"Celeste," he said in a low, cutting tone, "why do you persist in this futile hope? The mate bond you dream of is nothing but a myth for those like you."

Her eyes flashed with a mix of defiance and hurt. "It is not a myth," she replied softly yet firmly. "I believe fate has a plan for everyone—even for me."

Rafe's gaze hardened further. "Hope is for the naive," he spat, before turning away with deliberate, heavy steps. The echo of his departure left her with a raw sense of abandonment, yet also a spark of defiance that refused to be snuffed out.

In the ensuing hours, Celeste drifted through the pack grounds like a ghost—visible yet untouched by any kindness. The whispered insults and disdainful glances followed her every step, each one a reminder of her place as an outcast, forever marked by a lineage deemed unworthy.

And yet, her latent power shimmered at the edges of her vision, as if waiting for the precise moment to ignite fully.

As dusk settled and the sky deepened into a twilight blue, Celeste found herself alone on a narrow, familiar path lined with ancient trees. The silence was absolute—a quiet that allowed her to replay every cruel word and sneer of the day.

In that solitude, her thoughts coalesced around a single, tender belief: one day, a mate would come who saw her true worth, unclouded by the cursed past that had long defined her existence.

With that fragile hope warming her heart, Celeste stepped forward into the night—unaware that her journey was about to intertwine further with the unyielding traditions of Blackridge.