The Alpha's Secret Luna

Chapter 56: Clumsy Hands and Festival Preparations

The morning sun hung low over the Nightshade Pack’s compound, its pale light filtering through the snow-heavy pines, casting dappled shadows on the stone paths.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of fresh bread from the communal hall. Sophia trudged back from the training ground, her boots crunching against the frosted ground, her tailored cloak damp with sweat from the grueling five-mile run.

Her legs ached, her lungs still burned, but a quiet pride simmered in her chest. She’d kept pace with the young warriors and hunters, Dren’s advice about breathing and pacing echoing in her mind. She scanned the bustling compound, her breath fogging as she headed toward her small stone house, its rune-etched door glowing faintly in the dawn.

The compound thrummed with activity, pack members weaving through the paths with purpose, their arms laden with supplies. Sophia noticed it but she had no idea what was going on and why they were carrying supplies. Carts rolled in, piled high with sacks of grain, barrels of salted meat, and baskets of root vegetables, their drivers haggling with pack members in low, urgent tones.

Sophia caught sight of Orion and Ronan near one cart, their heads bent over a ledger, Orion’s broad frame steady despite his recovering pallor, his brown hair tied back which was rare since he hardly ever tried his hair at least she had never seen him with his hair tied before.

Ronan’s blonde hair glinted in the snowy weather as he gestured animatedly, laughing with the driver. The two were too engrossed to notice her, and Tobias, unloading crates nearby, was equally busy, his dark eyes focused, his leather jacket dusted with snow.

Sophia hesitated, her instinct to approach Orion quelled by the flurry around him. She wasn’t sure where she fit in this whirlwind of preparation, her outsider status still a weight on her shoulders. She would have gone to meet Orion or Ronan to ask what was happening but instead, she turned toward Brynhild’s house, a sturdy stone structure with a slanted roof and a porch where the guard captain often rested.

As Sophia approached, she spotted Brynhild on a rocking chair, her dark brown skin glowing in the morning light, her thick braids loose around her shoulders with a warm smile spread across her face.

"Figured you’d show up," Brynhild said, her voice rich with amusement, the rocking chair creaking as she leaned forward. "Let me guess...you’re here to ask what all this chaos is about."

Sophia laughed, the sound easing the ache in her muscles. She climbed the porch steps, brushing snow from her cloak, and sank onto a stool beside Brynhild. "You know me too well," she said, her blue eyes twinkling. "Everyone’s running around like the world’s ending. What’s going on?"

Brynhild’s smile softened, her hands resting on her pregnant belly. "It’s the Festival of the Fallen, a tradition just for us Nightshades. It will happen in three days."

"Festival of the fallen? What’s it about?" Sophia asked her.

"It’s a time to honour those we lost when the Enclave drove us out, parents, siblings, friends. Morning’s for mourning at the shrine either the one outside the compound, where the Moon Goddess’s presence lingers or the one inside here. We lay wreaths, speak their names. At night, we celebrate, feast, share stories, tell the fallen about our lives, our hopes. It’s a sad time, but we make it something good, thanking the Goddess for what we’ve still got."

Sophia’s eyes widened, a mix of awe and respect settling over her. "That’s... brilliant," she said, her voice soft. "Mourning and celebrating together, it’s like you’re keeping them alive, in a way."

Brynhild nodded, her silver eyes distant. "Exactly. It’s how we heal, how we stay strong. The Enclave took a lot, but they didn’t take our spirit."

"The enclave sounds evil." Sophia muttered.

Brynhild laughed. "I only have you the summary of it all. There is more to it." She paused before asking. "You don’t remember anything regarding them?" She asked her.

"The enclave?" Sophia asked her with a frown. "Am I supposed to?"

Brynhild shook her head. "Not really, especially if you’re not connected to them but it’s just...the werewolf community knows about the enclave so I thought maybe you’ve heard about them or something especially because they oversee the community. Everyone knows about them honestly."

Sophia scrunched her nose in deep thought, trying to recall anything about the enclave but nothing came to mind.

"I can’t think of anything." She told Brynhild.

"It’s alright. Take it easy, Lysander is researching ways to help you recover your memory." Brynhild told her.

Sophia was quiet. "What if I don’t want to remember?" She muttered.

Brynhild frowned and before she could ask her, Sophia changed the conversation.

She leaned back, her mind turning. "I want to help," she said, her voice firm. "Everyone’s doing something, and I’m just... running. I want to pitch in, do my part too. And besides, I can’t just continue taking from you all without giving back right?"

Brynhild’s smile returned, a glint of approval in her expression. "Good instinct, but you’d better clear it with Orion first. He’s the one calling the shots, and he’ll want to know you’re not stirring up trouble." She chuckled, the sound warm.

Sophia rolled her eyes but grinned. "Fine, I’ll ask the grumpy alpha. He’ll just probably tell me I’m useless anyway." She stood, brushing her hands on her trousers, and headed back toward the communal hall.

Orion was still by the cart, now alone, checking a stack of candles as the driver rolled away. His eyes flicked up as Sophia approached, a faint smile tugging at his lips, not quite a smirk, but close. "What’s this? Come to demand another test? Or is the run too much for you?" he teased, his voice rough but lighter than usual.

Sophia crossed her arms, her jaw set. "You wish. I can already feel my stamina kicking up but that’s not why I’m here though."

"Alright, what is it?"

"I want to help with the festival. Everyone’s doing something, and I know I’m still an outsider but I don’t just want to be collecting from you all, let me do something too."

Orion raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Help? You sure you can handle anything without breaking it?" He asked her.

She glared, though her lips twitched. "I’m not that clumsy."

"That is debatable." He told her. "But anyway, since you’ve requested it," He turned, calling over a lanky boy nearby, no older than sixteen, with messy blonde hair and a quick grin. "Victor, you’re with her."

He told them to follow him to the office as he signed a parchment giving it to Victor. "Show everyone she’s got my approval to work wherever she wants. No one will argue if it’s with you." He told the boy.

Sophia didn’t argue because she understood why he had to sign. Although it was to really obvious if one didn’t pay attention, she was treated like an outsider. No one spoke to her unless it was needed. They all went out of their way to avoid her. The only time to spoke with her openly without judgement was during the Skylur attack and that had been in a moment of rejoicing.

If she took the parchment alone, no one would give her attention to even get it from her so to avoid that, she had to go with someone who belonged in the pack already.

"Got it." Victor said and he turned to go but Orion stopped him.

"One more thing, don’t let her burn the compound down."

Victor saluted, his grin widening. "Got it, alpha." He gestured for Sophia to follow.

"Where do you want to start first?" He asked her.

Sophia turned her head. "Hmm, the kitchen?" She asked him.

"The kitchen it is."

His steps were light as he led her toward the kitchens, a low stone building beside the hall, its chimney puffing smoke.

Inside, the kitchen was a whirlwind of heat and chaos, the air thick with the aroma of roasting meat, baking bread, and crushed herbs. Pots clanged, knives flashed, and pack members bustled, preparing for the festival’s feast. The head cook was a wiry woman with gray-streaked hair and a perpetual frown, popularly known as Cook.

Her sharp eyes sized Sophia up as Victor explained Orion’s approval, her lips twisting wryly.

"Help, huh?" Cook said, her voice dry as old bread. "Fine, we’ll take it. We always need help around here after all. Start with the plates, wash ’em, don’t break ’em." She pointed to a towering stack of clay dishes by a wooden tub.

Sophia nodded eagerly, rolling up her sleeves. "I can do that," she said, diving in.

But within thirty minutes, more than three plates had slipped from her hands, shattering on the stone floor with a crash that drew glares from the kitchen staff. She winced, muttering apologies as Cook’s frown deepened.

"Alright, no more washing," Cook said, exasperated after she broke more. "Try cutting vegetables. Follow my lead, nice, even slices." She demonstrated, her knife flashing through carrots with precision.

Sophia tried to follow but her cuts were uneven and jagged despite Cook’s instructions. The carrots looked like they’d been hacked by a blind axe, and Cook’s patience was hanging on by a thread.

"Goddess help us," she muttered. "Fine, hand me ingredients when I ask. Can’t mess that up, can you?"

Sophia, red-faced, nodded, but even that went awry. When Cook called for salt, Sophia mistakenly grabbed sugar; when she asked for thyme, Sophia handed her rosemary. Each mistake drew a sharper sigh, and Sophia’s apologies grew more frantic. "I’m sorry, I’ll get it right," she said, her voice tight with embarrassment.

Cook threw up her hands. "One last try, get eggs from the chickens out back. Don’t scare ’em, just grab what’s in the nests." She pointed to a door leading to the coop, her eyes daring Sophia to fail again.

Sophia steeled herself, determined to redeem her disasters. She stepped into the snowy yard, where the chickens clucked in their pen, their feathers ruffling in the cold.

But her approach was too eager, her steps too heavy. The chickens squawked, flapping wildly, and one particularly feisty hen lunged, pecking at her hands. Sophia yelped, stumbling back, her dress catching on a splintered board. By the time she returned, her dress was torn, feathers clung to her hair, and she held no eggs, just a handful of plucked feathers.

Cook stared, her jaw tight. "Out," she said, pointing to the door. "Fix yourself somewhere else, girl." She slammed it shut, leaving Sophia and Victor in the snow.

Victor, biting his lip to stifle laughter, finally broke, his snickers echoing in the quiet. "Goddess, you’re a walking disaster," he said, his eyes dancing. "Chickens? Really?"

"It was vicious." She argued.