The weeks folded into one another, smooth and steady, until Elara no longer counted them.
She didn't wake each morning bracing for cruelty.
She didn't flinch when footsteps approached.
She didn't feel the need to shrink.
Instead, she rose with the sun, braided her hair quickly, pulled on simple work clothes the omegas had helped tailor for her, and walked down to the storage grounds as if she had always belonged there.
And somehow… she had.
"Morning, Elara!"
She turned at the sound of her name and smiled as Silla waved from the doorway, arms already full of linen. Brenna followed close behind, grinning, while Lio struggled with a crate he stubbornly refused to admit was too heavy.
Elara jogged the last few steps. "That one's going to fall on your foot if you keep pretending it doesn't hurt."
Lio scoffed. "It's not— okay, it hurts a little."
She laughed softly and took the other side of the crate. Together, they carried it inside.
The work was familiar now. Comforting. She knew where things belonged, which shelves creaked, which sacks needed reinforcing, which herbs Mirael would complain about if they weren't sorted properly. The omegas trusted her—trusted her judgment, trusted her hands.
Sometimes, that trust startled her more than anything else.
During a short break, they sat along the stone steps outside the storage hall, sharing dried fruit and water. The mountain wind carried distant sounds of training from the upper grounds—warriors sparring, instructors shouting corrections.
Brenna leaned back on her palms. "Do you ever miss Silvercrest?"
The question was gentle. Careful.
Elara thought about it longer than she expected.
"I miss… what I thought it was," she said honestly. "But not what it became."
The omegas nodded, understanding more than she'd expected. Blackridge took in wolves who had survived wars, losses, broken packs. Pain wasn't foreign here—it was respected.
Ryn hesitated before speaking. "Some of us heard… about the way you were treated there."
Elara's shoulders stiffened instinctively.
But there was no judgment in their eyes. Only quiet anger on her behalf.
"I'm sorry," Ryn added quickly. "You don't have to talk about it."
Elara exhaled slowly. "It's alright. I don't mind… not with you."
That seemed to mean something to them. Their expressions softened.
"You know," Barin said gruffly, "the omegas don't usually trust outsiders this quickly."
Elara tilted her head. "Why did you trust me?"
Barin studied her for a moment, then shrugged. "You work. You listen. You don't act like we're beneath you."
Her throat tightened.
"I was beneath everyone once," she said quietly. "I know how it feels to be unseen."
No one spoke after that—but something settled between them, solid and unbreakable.
From then on, Elara wasn't just helping.
She was needed.
When a supply count didn't add up, they called for her.
When an omega was overwhelmed, she stepped in without being asked.
When someone was injured carrying loads, she stayed with them until a healer arrived.
And slowly, subtly, the pack began to notice.
Not in whispers or rumors.
In action.
Warriors nodded to her in passing. A patrol member once stopped to help her lift a crate without being prompted. Even Kael's guards acknowledged her presence with respectful dips of their heads.
One afternoon, as Elara wiped her hands clean outside the storage hall, she sensed him before she saw him.
Kael stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, watching.
He didn't interrupt. Didn't summon her.
He just watched her laugh with the omegas, watched her carry her share of work, watched her exist without fear.
Something unreadable crossed his face—pride, perhaps, tangled with restraint.
Elara noticed him eventually.
Their eyes met.
She hesitated, then lifted a small hand in greeting.
Kael inclined his head in return.
No words.
But the look they shared said more than either dared speak aloud.
Lyra stirred contentedly.
He sees you.
Elara felt it too.
That night, as she returned to her room tired but peaceful, she realized something profound:
Blackridge hadn't just given her safety.
It had given her dignity.
And she had earned it—not through pain, not through sacrifice, but through presence, kindness, and work.
As she lay down, the mountain wind humming softly outside her window, Elara closed her eyes without fear of what morning would bring.
For the first time in her life, she knew exactly where she would go when she woke.
And that, she realized, was its own kind of freedom.