Cassidy
The scent of roasting meat and fresh herbs filled the air, thick and cloying. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a chokehold.
I knelt in front of the stone oven, the heat licking at my skin as I pulled out a tray of golden-brown bread. My arms ached. My stomach clenched. Hunger had long since become a familiar ache, but tonight, it felt crueler than usual.
Because tonight wasn't for us.
It was for them.
"Faster, Cassidy." My mother's voice cut through the thick air, urgent yet weary. "The Moon Warden's feast has to be perfect."
I bit my tongue and forced my hands to move quicker, setting the steaming loaves onto the wooden counter. My mother darted past me, graceful despite exhaustion, her apron dusted in flour, her brow damp with sweat. She never paused. Never hesitated.
She knew her place.
And I hated mine.
I grabbed a ladle and stirred the thick venison stew simmering over the fire. Rich, dark broth swirled beneath my touch, the scent of wine and herbs teasing my senses. My stomach twisted, but I ignored it.
I had learned to ignore a lot of things.
The hunger.
The endless labor.
The way our lives belonged to creatures who never so much as looked at us.
Humans didn't get invited to these feasts.
We were the ones who made them possible.
America wasn't always like this.
There was a time, long before I was born, when humans thought they were the only ones who mattered. The only ones who ruled.
Then the wolves and vampires showed us how wrong we were.
Their war lasted over a century, a brutal conflict that tore through cities, leaving nothing but ruins and bodies behind. It wasn't until the witches stepped in that a truce was formed—but by then, half of humanity had already been wiped out.
The ones who survived fought back.
We tried to reclaim what was ours.
And we lost.
That war left us even weaker than before. The supernatural truce demanded that humans be allowed to exist, but that was all it gave us—existence. No power, no rights. In some countries, humans were valued, respected.
But not here.
Here, we were a reminder of our own failures. A species on the edge of extinction, tolerated only because the supernaturals needed us.
And yet, the irony of it all was that if humans disappeared, so would they.
Witches drew magic from the balance of life—without us, their spells weakened.
Werewolves needed the witches to control their lycanthropy. only a few of them had control over it.
Vampires could drink animal blood, but it would never sustain them the way human blood did.
They needed us.
But that didn't mean they respected us.
Surviving in the Shadows
A sharp knock on the kitchen door jolted me from my thoughts.
"Boyce!"
Mistress Renna, the head housekeeper, pushed her way into the room, her sharp gaze sweeping over the kitchen like a predator scanning its territory. She was a small woman, but she ruled this estate with an iron grip.
"Is the venison ready?" she barked.
"Just finished, Mistress Renna," my mother replied smoothly, lifting the tray.
Renna grunted, then her gaze landed on me. "And you, girl. Take this tray to the servers. Now."
I swallowed hard and nodded. Arguing was pointless. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped forward as my mother handed me a platter stacked with freshly sliced meat.
Her fingers brushed against mine, a silent warning.
Keep your head down.
I already knew that.
Balancing the heavy tray, I walked past the line of other human workers and pushed through the door into the grand dining hall's servant corridor.
The moment I stepped inside, the air changed.
It was colder here. Not in temperature, but in something unseen, something deeper.
The scent of food was no longer dominant. Instead, there was something richer, sharper—power.
I had never stepped foot inside the great hall before. Humans weren't allowed to linger where supernaturals feasted. But tonight, things were different.
Renna's voice echoed behind me.
"Boyce! Stay and assist the servers until the feast begins."
I nearly dropped the tray.
Inside the hall?
I had always known my place. Humans didn't sit at these tables. We didn't speak unless spoken to. We weren't meant to be seen.
But tonight, that was no longer an option.
I stepped into the hall, keeping my back straight, my eyes low.
The room was alive with movement.
Werewolves, tall and powerful, draped in dark leathers and silks, their movements smooth, almost lazy—but their sharp gazes never missed a thing. Vampires, elegant and cold, their clothes rich, their pale skin aglow under the golden chandeliers. Witches, draped in shimmering fabrics, their fingers adorned with rings that pulsed with energy.
And at the center of it all, seated at the head of the long table, was him.
Alpha Garrick Thorne.
The Moon Warden of America.
His presence dominated the room. Thick, graying hair framed a face carved from stone, his golden eyes glinting like a predator surveying his kingdom. Scars marred his strong jaw, souvenirs from battles won long ago.
He was the most powerful werewolf in the country.
And he was the reason humans like me lived in chains.
I moved quickly, placing the tray onto the side table for the servers, then stepped back, blending into the shadows as best as I could.
But something felt different tonight.
The air was thick, charged, as if something unseen had settled over the room. A storm before the first drop of rain.
I didn't know what it was.
I only knew one thing.
Something was coming.
And when it did, nothing would ever be the same.