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The bells above Herbal Haven chime as a bright afternoon breeze rattles the door, sending the scent of dried lavender and sage dancing through the air.

I pause in my stocktaking, breathing in the familiar comfort of the shop— my shop.

Five years of careful cultivation have transformed the once-empty storefront into my sanctuary, each shelf a testament to my new life, the life I built all on my own.

It’s still, even now, the most precious thing I could ask for.

Afternoon sunlight filters through bundles of drying herbs hanging from exposed beams, casting dappled shadows across worn hardwood floors.

I've preserved the character of the century-old building while making it my own.

Antique apothecary cabinets line the walls, their small drawers meticulously labeled with herbs both common and rare.

Glass jars of every size catch the light, filled with tinctures, oils, and dried plants.

The front window display features crystalline bottles of my most popular blends—sleep aids, stress relief, immune boosters—arranged around a carved wooden moon phase calendar.

I trace my fingers along the rough spines of leather-bound ledgers, pride warming my chest at the neat columns of figures.

The morning's sales have been particularly good—Mrs. Hilldrop bought out my entire stock of sleep-aid tea, and that fussy woman from the yacht club finally admitted my migraine tincture worked better than her prescription medications.

"Take that, Melissa Blackwood," I mutter, remembering the Alpha's sister's sneering voice. No one would ever trust remedies from someone like you. Humans won't buy from a fat half-breed who can't even shift.

The memory stings less now, dulled by time and success. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I left, it’s that time won’t heal all wounds, but it’ll certainly go a long way in numbing them.

The shop's antique mirror catches my reflection as I move to adjust a display of crystal vials.

I study myself with the same careful assessment I've developed over years of pack scrutiny.

Copper-red curls escape my messy bun, framing a heart-shaped face that has finally lost its baby fat.

My curves remain—no amount of running or yoga has changed that—but I've learned to dress them well in flowing bohemian dresses that suit both my figure and my profession.

Today's is deep green, emphasizing my eyes and complementing the scattered freckles across my nose.

A flicker of movement outside my window draws my attention.

The October wind sends golden leaves skittering across Harbor Springs' main street, past boutiques and cafes catering to the wealthy summer residents who linger into fall.

I love this time of year, when tourist season winds down, and the town belongs to locals again.

I've carved out my own place here, earned respect that has nothing to do with pack status or bloodlines.

"Excuse me?"

A tentative voice interrupts my reverie. An elderly human woman stands in the doorway, clutching a small piece of paper.

"My daughter swears by your arthritis salve. She said you might be able to help with my insomnia, too?"

I smile, sliding easily into my role as a trusted herbalist. "Of course. Let me show you our sleep blend options. The chamomile-valerian is popular, but for chronic insomnia, I often recommend..."

Ten minutes later, the woman leaves with three different teas and my detailed instructions for their use.

These are the moments that make me proud—helping people, being valued for my knowledge rather than my bloodline or ability (or lack thereof) to shift.

Here, no one cares that I was born to a shifter father and witch mother.

No one whispers about me being an aberration, a reminder of unions better left in the past. No one even seems to care how I look, about the body I spent years hating.

It’s a peace I’d never imagined for myself.

The mail slot rattles, interrupting my thoughts.

I frown—my regular delivery isn't due until tomorrow.

I cross to the door, heels clicking against hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of foot traffic.

The envelope lying on my welcome mat bears no return address, just my name in elaborate calligraphy.

The paper is thick, expensive, with a faint sheen that makes my fingertips tingle.

Magic. Old magic—shifter magic. I’d know the feeling of it anywhere.

My own power stirs in response, a warmth spreading from my chest to my fingertips.

It's been happening more frequently lately—these unexpected surges of energy that feel both foreign and familiar, like remembering a childhood song. I was never trained to control my magic, and a part of me always suspected that that might come back to bite me, but I couldn’t have exactly strong-armed my old pack into accepting me, accepting what I could do.

Now, I just have to deal with the consequences of their neglect, the things they refused to see.

I've stopped fighting them, letting the sensations flow through me as my mother once taught me.

Magic is part of who you are, her voice echoes in my memory. Never let anyone make you ashamed of it.

The seal breaks with a snap that feels more significant than it should. As I unfold the paper, the scent of pine needles and mountain air fills my nostrils—the smell of home. Of Silvercreek. Shit.

My hands tremble as I read:

By decree of the Silvercreek Council of Elders and Alpha Dominic Blackwood, you are hereby summoned to participate in the Silvercreek Pack's renewal of the historic Mating Lottery, as Alpha’s rite ordained by ancient law and tradition.

As it has come to our attention that you have remained packless since leaving the territory, your presence is mandatory within three days' time as a bound packmate.

The Lottery has been invoked by the Council's unanimous decision in response to signs and portents indicating the need for pack strengthening and renewal. All unmated female pack members between the ages of twenty and thirty are required to participate.

Failure to appear will result in immediate classification as a rogue element, subject to all applicable penalties under regional pack law.

By the authority of Alpha Dominic Blackwood and High Elder Victoria Blackwood, Head of the Council of Elders

Despite myself, my legs give out.

I sink into my consultation chair, mind spinning.

The Mating Lottery? It hasn't been held in over fifty years—Dominic’s grandfather was the last Alpha of Silvercreek to participate.

My own grandmother told me stories about the last one, I recall.

But that was before the old ways started dying out, before packs became more concerned with preserving ever- dwindling bloodline purity than the somewhat unpredictable whims of fate.

Our slow, incremental integration with the human world in the past decades has changed many things, especially as more and more shifters and witches fell in love and had children with members of the non-magical majority.

The loss, by and large, of the Mating Lottery tradition was one change any sane person would be glad for.

But they’re bringing it back. And they’ve summoned me—and I can’t disobey that.

"This can't be happening," I whisper to my empty shop. “This can’t be—it can’t be real.”

The paper crinkles in my clenched fist as memories crash over me like a wave, dragging me back five years to my last night in Silvercreek.

My last night with Dominic.

—

The bonfire casts dancing shadows across faces I've known since childhood, none of them friendly now. I’m eighteen, my gut twisting with anxiety. Whispers follow my movement through the crowd—the usual mix of mockery about my size, my lack of wolf, my audacity in thinking I belong.

"Luna."

His voice cuts through the murmurs, deep and commanding.

Nic stands tall in the firelight, already growing into his future Alpha role.

The flames paint his sharp cheekbones in gold and shadow, highlighting the cold distance in his eyes.

Those same eyes had burned with passion just hours before, when he'd pressed me against the wall of his cabin and kissed me like I was oxygen.

"Nic, please." I don't mean to beg, but the words spill out anyway. "You don't have to do this."

"You're not pack." Each word falls like a stone. "You never will be. Look at you—you’re pathetic. Silvercreek will be far better off without you.” His eyes narrow, a flash of cruelty in them. “Anyone would be.”

The crowd's satisfaction is palpable. Finally, their future Alpha is putting the half-breed in her place. The humiliation is almost physically painful, a burn, hot and tingling, and awful.

I feel the magic surge inside me, responding to my pain, but I force it down.

Using it would only prove them right about me being dangerous, unnatural.

With all the pride I have left, clutching it even as it dissolves away in my fingers like sand, I turn and walk away, spine straight despite the tears streaming down my face.

By dawn, I am gone.

***

I blink back to the present, realizing I've crumpled the summons in my fist. With deliberate care, I smooth the paper, reading the formal text again. The words remain unchanged. Participation is mandatory. Three days.

"No," I say aloud to my empty shop. "Absolutely not."

My phone chimes with a news alert. The headline catches my eye immediately: "WILD ANIMAL ATTACKS CONTINUE IN NORTHERN MICHIGAN—SHIFTER INVOLVEMENT SUSPECTED.

" The article details three more incidents in the past week—hikers found dead, their bodies showing signs of large predator attacks.

The locations form a pattern, I realize with growing unease. Each one is closer to Silvercreek.