Chapter 7

I counted the bricks on the cell wall, forty-three across, twenty-eight high. The monotonous task kept my mind occupied, away from thoughts of what would happen when the moon rose.

Outside my tiny window, pack life continued. Voices drifted down from the grounds, excited, eager. They prepared for my death as if planning a festival.

"Did you hear? Silver blade execution!"

"First one in fifteen years!"

"They're setting up in the ceremonial clearing!"

Each snippet of conversation hammered another nail into the coffin of my hope. No rescue would come. No last-minute discovery of truth. Tonight, I would die.

The small bowl of water they'd provided sat untouched on the floor. Why bother drinking? Why prolong my final hours of misery?

A young pack member, barely sixteen, brought my midday meal. He slid it under the door without meeting my eyes, hurrying away as if my bad fortune might be contagious.

I pushed the food tray aside without looking at it. My stomach had twisted itself into knots that no food could penetrate.

Time ticked by with agonizing slowness. The patch of sunlight from my window crept across the floor inch by inch. I traced its movement, realizing these were the last rays of sun I would ever feel.

The door creaked open. A pack warrior I'd known since childhood entered, Ryan, who once shared his lunch with me when bullies stole mine. Now he wouldn't meet my gaze.

"The Alpha sent this," he said, placing a bundle on the floor. "For the... ceremony."

"Execution," I corrected bitterly. "Call it what it is."

Ryan's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"What is it?" I asked, nodding toward the bundle.

"White dress. Pack tradition."

Of course. The condemned wore white, purity before purification through death. Another cruel tradition of a pack that had never accepted me.

"Five hours remaining," Ryan added, turning to leave.

The door closed behind him with a heavy thud of finality. Five hours left. Five hours of existence before oblivion.

I sank to the floor, fingers brushing against the white fabric. My burial gown. My final outfit.

The walls seemed to press closer, the air thickening in my lungs. Five hours left. Five hours of existence before oblivion.

I unfolded the dress with shaking hands. Simple, unadorned white linen, designed to show blood dramatically when the silver blade struck. My death would make a pretty picture for those watching.

Outside, the sounds of construction continued. Hammers pounding, wood scraping against wood. Building the stage for my final performance.

More voices drifted through my window.

"Catherine is beside herself with satisfaction."

"Did you see Sara? Already looking better."

"They say Linda commissioned a special silver blade from the metalsmith."

Their excitement felt obscene. Had they all hated me so much? Or did they simply crave the spectacle, regardless of who died?

I closed my eyes, memories washing over me. Not the bad ones, I'd dwelled on those enough. Instead, I remembered rare moments of peace: reading beneath the old oak tree on summer afternoons, the brief pride on Father's face when I won the junior pack race at twelve, the quiet mornings in the kitchen before anyone else woke.

Small moments of happiness in a life that would end far too soon.

The afternoon light faded as clouds gathered outside. Even the sun abandoned me on my final day.

Pack members passed by my window, their footsteps hurrying with purpose. Preparations continued for the evening's main event, my death. Each passing hour made my heart beat faster, fear clawing at my throat despite my attempts to face my fate with dignity.

Three hours left. Then two.

I changed into the white dress, the fabric rough against my skin. In the small mirror they'd provided, I hardly recognized myself. Pale, hollow-eyed, dressed like a sacrifice. Perhaps that's what I was, a scapegoat for a pack that needed someone to blame.

No one came to visit. Not my father, not even to clear his conscience. Not Damian, who would soon be free of his unwanted wife. Certainly not Catherine or Sara, who had orchestrated my downfall. Not Linda, who would soon have the daughter-in-law she'd always wanted.

Alone in my final hours, as I had been alone most of my life.

I paced the small cell, seven steps one way, six the other. The walls closed in with each passing minute. Had they always been this close? Had the ceiling always hung this low?

My breath came faster, shorter. Panic clawed at my chest as reality sank deeper—I was going to die. Tonight. Hours from now. They would lead me to that platform, force me to my knees, and end my life while the pack watched.

I pressed my palms against the cold stone wall, focusing on its solid presence. In. Out. Breathe.

The white dress hung loose on my frame. I'd lost weight these past weeks—stress, misery, and now impending death stealing my appetite. The pack would see me weak, diminished. Perhaps that's what they wanted all along.

Outside, rain began pattering against the small window, nature's tears for what I could no longer shed. My own had dried up, leaving only hollow emptiness.

I smoothed the white dress over my knees, wondering if death would hurt. The silver blade would burn, I knew that much. But how long until darkness claimed me? Seconds? Minutes?

The sound of distant drums began, the ceremonial rhythm that would grow louder as moonrise approached. My death march had begun.

Outside my cell, voices and footsteps increased. The pack gathering for the main event.

No one came to offer comfort. No last visit, no final words. Even the guard who had brought my final meal, untouched on the floor, didn't return to collect it. Why bother? The dead have no need for food.

I closed my eyes, trying to find some peace in my final moments. Instead, memories flooded back, Sara's smug smile when Father praised her, Catherine's cutting remarks, Damian's cold rejection, Linda's calculated cruelty.

And then other memories, the rare kind moments from unexpected sources. Martha slipping me extra dessert when no one watched. The elderly pack healer teaching me about herbs when I showed interest. Damian's single compliment about the flowers.

Small mercies in a life largely devoid of them.

The drums grew louder. My hands trembled despite my attempts to appear calm.

One hour left.

I sat on the small cot, straightening the white fabric across my lap over and over. A useless gesture, soon it would be stained with my blood.

A strange calm began to settle over me. The panic receded, replaced by a hollow acceptance. There was no escape. No rescue. No one coming to save me. I would die tonight, and the pack would move on, forgetting the unwanted daughter who briefly disrupted their perfect plans.

Sara would marry Damian. Catherine would finally have the alliance she'd schemed for all these years. Linda would gain the daughter-in-law she'd always wanted. Father would have only one daughter to disappoint him.

And I would be nothing but a cautionary tale, a whispered story to frighten young pack members.

The light outside my window faded completely. Night had fallen. Moonrise approached.

The drums reached a crescendo, then stopped abruptly. The sudden silence pressed against my ears like a physical weight.

Heavy footsteps approached. This would be my escort to death.

The door swung open. Four pack warriors stood outside, Ryan among them, his face carefully blank.

"It's time," he said.

I rose slowly, legs unsteady beneath me. The white dress fell to my ankles, pristine and waiting for blood.

"Any final requests?" Ryan asked, protocol forcing the words from him.

I looked at each of them, these people I'd grown up alongside. "Remember this moment. Remember that you led an innocent woman to her death."

Discomfort flickered across their faces, but duty hardened them again quickly.

"Let's go," Ryan said, gesturing for me to exit.

I stepped from my cell for the final time.

The hallway stretched before me, leading upward to fresh air and moonlight.

And death.