Ashes of a Broken Crown

“SAMANTHA!”

Someone is yelling from outside my door.

“Ugh.”

Whoever it is keeps knocking like my door personally offended them. The pounding is relentless.

“Samantha! Open the door this instant. What are you doing in there?”

I groan and glance at the clock on my nightstand.

Six in the morning.

What am I doing at six in the morning? What any sane wolf would be doing—sleeping. By the shrill, angry female voice pounding my door like she’s kneading bread, I already know who it is.

Luna Vasti.

I drag myself out of bed, feet scuffing against the floor, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I pull the door open.

“Yes, Luna?” I say carefully, keeping my voice low and respectful. One wrong tone and she’d accuse me of disrespect. She’s a nasty she-wolf when she wants to be.

“Ahh, there you are, girl,” she coos, dripping with fake concern. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Sure you did.

“No worries, Luna. What can I help you with?” I reply, sarcasm threading my words no matter how hard I try to stop it.

“Oh, lovely of you to ask.” She smiles thinly. “The Alpha spilled wine on his shirt during last night’s feast. It’s stained. I didn’t want to wake the house staff—wash it for me, would you?”

Didn’t want to wake the house staff.

I glance back at the clock. 6:04 a.m.

I have to be at the pack hospital in forty-five minutes.

“Well… I kind of have to be at the pack hos—”

She cuts me off with an eye roll. “No worries. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

I stare at her blankly.

“Oh wonderful! We do very much appreciate you, dear Samantha,” she says, spitting the words as she tosses the shirt at my chest and turns away.

Sure you do.

I shut the door with a sigh, staring down at the wine-stained fabric in my hands.

I’m going to be late.

Again.

I should probably be less snappy. It’s not like I live a horrible life. I’m pretty well off, all things considered. Being the weakest member of the pack isn’t all bad—especially when you have other assets.

Not many twenty-six-year-olds can say they have a medical degree.

Not many human ones, let alone wolves.

I finished high school at fifteen. My parents died when I was ten. Specifically, they died in a pack fire.

That night, all the adults were out celebrating a newly bonded mating ceremony. They left the pups behind in what used to be the pack house—about fifteen of us, watched by one adult she-wolf. How anyone thought that was a good idea is beyond me.

No one ever figured out how the fire started.

We lost Gin—the young she-wolf meant to be watching us. Goddess rest her soul.

But not a single pup died.

My parents were the first to smell the smoke. The story goes that the moment they did, they shifted and bolted for the pack house. They ran in and carried the pups out, making multiple trips through the flames.

On the last trip, they realized I wasn’t there.

They ran back in and—

I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightening.

I hear a soft whine from my wolf.

“It’s okay, girl,” I murmur. “We’re okay.”

Ever since then, the pack took me in.

Before the fire, we weren’t exactly a respectable family. Rumors floated around that my parents came from another pack—maybe even rogues. I never knew the truth. Those were just whispers.

My mother was a pack teacher. My father was a pack plumber. Bottom of the rank.

My father, though physically strong, never challenged authority or stepped out of line. Still… sometimes I felt like he could have. His aura always felt strong. As strong as—

Honestly?

The Alpha.

I shake my head. Just the fantasies of a little girl who adored her father.

My mother, though? She was the one person my father was a coward for. They were perfect. Fated mates. Even our low status never dulled their spirit.

Sometimes the higher-ranked wolves belittled us, looked down on us. My father would just smile and say, “Sammy girl, never underestimate the little guy. He might surprise you. Treat everyone with respect—from the Alpha to the weakest wolf. A pack is only as strong as the trust it holds.”

I swallow.

I miss you, Dad.

After they died, the Alpha pair took me in personally. Honestly, how could they not? If not for my parents, every pup would have died that night.

The first year, everyone was kind. Sympathetic.

After that, I became a burden.

When I turned fifteen, I asked for emancipation papers. I homeschooled myself, locking myself in my room for six months. I barely slept. I looked like a walking corpse—but I finished high school.

I took one summer off.

Then I went straight to college on a scholarship Cameran’s dad helped me apply for. He’s the pack doctor. Cameran—my best friend—was one of the pups my parents saved. He never forgot.

After grad school, Dirge helped me through med school financially.

Now I work under him in the pack hospital.

Calling it a hospital is generous. Shifters don’t get sick often. Mostly training injuries, rogue attacks, and annual physicals for kids attending human schools. We forge vaccination records when needed. Shifters are immune to most illnesses anyway.

Healing gets stronger around first shift.

Usually around twelve.

Unless you’re me.

I shifted at ten. The same night as the fire.

And—

“No. No. Stop. We’re fine. Happy thoughts.”

I shake my head like that might chase the memories away.

Most days, I help Dirge at the pack house. On weekends, I pick up shifts at a human hospital for extra money. Not much—but someday, it’ll be enough.

Enough to leave.

Far away.

Maybe I’ll bring Dirge and Cam with me.

Two hours later—after doing exactly what Luna Vasti wanted—I walk into the pack hospital and head straight for Dr. Dirge’s office.

The building smells faintly of antiseptic and dried herbs, a comforting blend I’ve always associated with safety. The pack hospital is old, built from stone and reinforced wood, sturdy in a way that feels permanent. Dirge’s office is tucked near the back, small but warm. A desk sits near the window, a worn couch pressed against one wall, and several tall bookshelves line the rest of the room, sagging slightly under the weight of ancient tomes.

Dirge stands by the shelves, a few heavy medical tomes cradled in his arms.

Shifter medical knowledge isn’t digitized or printed—it’s written, copied, and passed down through generations in leather-bound tomes. Every healer adds to them. I’ve read almost every one our pack owns, thanks entirely to Dirge.

“Ah,” Dirge says in his low, raspy voice, glancing over his shoulder. “I was wondering w