I exhaled, fingers flexing around the phantom feel of the bow. “Because it was never about being extraordinary. It wasn’t even about being good. It was about passing the time.”
His brows furrowed.
“No one ever invited me to play with them,” I continued, my voice quieter, softer. “No one wanted me on their teams. So while you and Celeste hung out with the other kids in the pack, and Mother and Father pretended I didn’t exist, I practiced archery against the old garden wall. Again and again. Until I could hit a mark with my eyes closed. Because what else was I supposed to do? Sit inside till I faded into nothing?”
A shadow passed through his expression.
I could see the realization sinking in-what I hadn’t said outright, but lingered between us: the neglect, the isolation, the quiet cruelty of constantly being overlooked.
“Celeste and I played once or twice, but even then I had to pretend I was subpar, so I didn’t bruise her gigantic, yet fragile ego.”
Ethan’s jaw clenched. His usual easy confidence faltered, and he seemed caught between words and silence.
“I didn’t know,” he admitted finally. “Seraphina…I didn’t know.”
I forced a smile, though it felt unsteady. “Not knowing doesn’t erase it.”
Before the moment could stretch any further, a familiar voice cut through the tension.
“There you are.”
Lucian approached with his usual calm authority, his presence shifting the air instantly. Relief surged through me at the sight of him.
“Stunning as ever,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping over me, warm and appraising. “And making headlines without me, I hear.”
I arched a brow. “You heard?”
He gave me a rueful smile. “I would have preferred to see. I can’t believe I missed the performance of the night. A shame.”
I lifted my chin playfully. “You’ll have time to see more…performances once LST is over. You can judge for yourself then.”
His smile widened, something almost conspiratorial in it. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Ethan and Maya lingered at the edge of our conversation, but Lucian’s presence made them feel like shadows receding into the wall.
“Come,” Lucian said, extending his hand slightly, palm open. “It’s time for our speech.”
I hesitated only a second before slipping my hand into his. I glanced at Maya, and she shot me a wink and a small wave as Lucian led me away.
Together, we moved back toward the grand hall where anticipation buzzed like electricity in the air.
The stage was set for the keynote, the emblem of OTS illuminated in silver light against deep velvet drapes.
As Lucian and I stepped up side by side, a hush descended.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, his presence steady as stone beside me. And I didn’t feel like a guest dragged along to stand in the background-I truly felt like his partner.
Lucian’s voice carried first, resonant and commanding, weaving words of vision and strength. He spoke of unity, of innovation, of the trials that had shaped OTS into what it was today.
Then he gestured toward me, seamlessly passing the spotlight. “And none of it would be possible without those who stand with us.
Seraphina, will you share your thoughts?”
Hundreds of eyes turned. My heartbeat stuttered, but then steadied. I lifted my chin, recalling the faces of Maya, of Daniel, of everyone who had chosen to believe in me when I couldn’t even believe in myself.
“My story,” I began, “isn’t one of power inherited, or privilege granted. It’s one of persistence. Of survival and determination. OTS stands for that same resilience. We are not the strongest because we were born so. We are strong because we refuse to break.
The words flowed easier with each breath. By the end, the crowd was leaning forward, listening-not with skepticism, but with respect.
Lucian placed a hand lightly against my back, subtle but steadying. “And because of that spirit,” he announced, voice ringing with finality,” we are proud to unveil this year’s prize.”
An attendant stepped forward, unveiling a glass vessel that seemed to glow faintly under the lights.
A collective gasp swept the hall-mine included, since even I hadn’t been privy to Lucian’s grand prize.
“The Moon Dew Nectar,” Lucian declared.
The name alone sent ripples through the audience.
Murmurs broke out instantly-disbelief, awe, hunger. I could see the way even the most jaded Alphas leaned forward, eyes wide, unable to mask their fascination.
The vessel shimmered like liquid starlight, its pale silver hue shifting as though made of moonlight itself.
I had heard whispers of it before, but never imagined seeing it in person.
The Moon Dew Nectar-said to be brewed from an ancient plant that only bloomed under the rarest lunar phases. Said to purify, restore heal the unseen. Not a potion of strength, but of clarity. A chance to realign with one’s wolf, one’s very soul.
“Few in history have even laid eyes on it,” Lucian continued. “Even fewer have tasted it. Tonight, it stands as our grand prize-for the victor who proves not only strength, but ambition and tenacity worthy of it.”
The uproar that followed was like thunder.
Gasps. Cheers. Disbelieving shouts.
Excitement rolled through the hall in waves, electrifying the atmosphere.
I glanced at Lucian, who stood calm amidst the storm he had unleashed, lips curved in the faintest, most knowing smile.
And beside him, I realized, I was no longer a bystander. I was part of the storm.
SERAPHINA’S POV
The hall still hummed with noise long after Lucian’s announcement. Excited murmurs collided like sparks from flint, igniting speculation in every corner,
“The Moon Dew Nectar…could it be real?” someone called out, their tone half awe, half disbelief.
“The Moon Dew Nectar doesn’t exist,” someone else barked, disbelief curling through his tone. “It’s folklore.”
“No, I’ve read papers on it,” another insisted, breathless. “The plant’s real. The recipe? Lost centuries ago.”
“How could OTS possibly have it?”
“Or…is this all a clever trick?”
Speculation tangled with awe until the whole place was a fever dream.
I didn’t need heightened hearing to catch the words: impossible, fabricated, mythical, priceless.
The voices around me tangled together-awed gasps, suspicious whispers, greedy mutterings.
My hands fisted the fabric of my dress harder than I intended, my knuckles whitening. This was no ordinary prize.
It was more than glory, more than wealth. Whoever claimed it would wield a miracle.
Lucian stood tall before the case, his expression carefully composed but unmistakably proud.
His dark suit caught the gilded light, his presence commanding the entire room. “Doubt,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying with the authority of a born Alpha, “is natural. But truth does not need belief to exist.”
A murmur rippled again, skeptical yet attentive.
And then-because of course Lucian would leave no room for doubt-he lifted his hand.
The massive screen behind us flickered to life.
The image sharpened into the face of a man even I recognized-a pharmaceutical master, gray at the temples, with a reputation untouchable in the werewolf world.
His work in medicine and elixirs was often called revolutionary, his name whispered with reverence like an incantation.
“Master Qadir,” Lucian introduced. “A name that requires no embellishment in our world. He has examined and authenticated the elixir personally.”
The man adjusted his silver glasses and nodded into the camera. “Yes,” he said plainly. “And what OTS has unveiled is no counterfeit. I have examined samples of this elixir personally. The Moon Dew Nectar is real.”
Gasps swept the room anew, this time edged with exhilaration. Skeptics fell silent, their folded arms loosening. and ears told them.
But it no longer mattered. Lucian had brought forth an unimpeachable authority.
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