Moments later, two enforcers dragged a trembling young Omega into the training yard. The girl was barely more than skin and bones, her uniform threadbare, her eyes swollen and red.
Lyra followed behind them, her voice high and clear enough to draw a crowd. “This one,” she announced with regal disdain, “stole from the funds allocated for the former Luna and her child. Claimed she needed it for her dying mother.”
She scoffed. “A pretty excuse for a thief.”
Then, with a flick of her wrist, she commanded, “Break her legs. Let her screams remind the rest what happens when you take from the Alpha’s house.”
“No.”
The word cracked like thunder from my throat.
Even if I were a fool, I wasn’t blind enough to believe this scrawny Omega had acted alone. Lyra’s display was too convenient. Too polished.
I stepped forward, reaching instinctively for Ayla—but paused as Lyra signaled subtly behind her. A tilt of her fingers. Barely noticeable. But the intent was unmistakable.
Then they came.
Her two pups—no more than five winters old but already groomed in cruelty—charged forward, snarling.
“You’re trying to take our daddy away!” the girl howled, clutching a sharp stone from the path.