They told me at four in the morning.

The seamstress had already dragged me out of bed and shoved me into the center of the room. Candles flickered on the dresser. Cold air licked my bare legs.

Hana knelt at my feet with a mouthful of pins and yanked the white lace gown over my hips. The fabric was Mira's. It hung loose across my chest and pinched tight at the waist because my sister had always been the one with the curves that made men stare.

Hana drove another pin into the side seam. The sharp point scraped skin. But I didn't flinch.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Heavy. Familiar. My father pushed the door open without knocking. He wore the same dark tunic he always did for pack business, collar open, beard trimmed sharp. He stopped two paces inside the room and spoke to the air just above my left shoulder.

"Mira refused. You leave at first light."

Seven words. No explanation. No sorry. His eyes never touched my face.

Hana kept pinning. The steel points clicked against each other as she adjusted the bodice. One pin slipped and stabbed deep into the soft skin under my ribs. A tiny bead of blood welled up and soaked into the lace. Hana muttered an apology under her breath but didn't stop.

I kept my arms raised exactly where they had been for the last twenty minutes. I had nineteen years of practice turning myself into furniture when my father entered a room. I breathed through my nose, slow and even, and watched the candle flame gutter on the dresser.

He gave one more order to the space above my shoulder. "Make sure the hem clears the carriage step. I don't want her tripping and embarrassing the pack." Then he turned and left. The door clicked shut behind him like a lock sliding home.

Hana let out a long breath and sat back on her heels. "Arms down, miss. I need to fix the back."

I lowered my arms. The gown slid a fraction. Hana attacked the laces with quick fingers, pulling them so tight I felt my ribs compress. I stared at the floorboards and counted the knots in the wood while the seamstress worked. Ten knots. Twelve. Fifteen. Anything to keep from thinking about the words still hanging in the air.

Mira refused.

Of course she had. Mira was the beautiful one. The chosen one. The one my father actually looked at when he spoke.

I was the spare.

Hana finished the laces and stepped back. "There. You'll do." She didn't meet my eyes either.

The corridor outside smelled of woodsmoke and wet stone. Mira waited halfway down, leaning against the wall in a simple gray robe, hair loose and shining even in the weak lantern light. She held out a small silk pouch between two fingers like it might bite her.

"Sleeping herbs," she said. "For the journey. They'll keep you calm."

I looked at my sister. Mira's mouth curved in that soft, practiced smile she used on the pack warriors, but her eyes gave it away. The relief sat there bright and naked. No guilt. No shame. Just clean, bright relief that the carriage outside would carry me instead of her.

I walked past without taking the pouch. My shoulder brushed hers. The silk whispered against fabric and fell to the floor behind me with a soft thud. I didn't look back.

Outside, the night air hit my face like a slap. Two servants stood by the carriage holding lanterns. Black lacquer, no insignia, wheels already spattered with mud from the road.

The horses stamped and blew steam from their nostrils. I climbed the single iron step alone. The gown caught on the edge exactly as my father had feared. I jerked it free and heard lace tear. No one offered to help.

The door shut behind me with a heavy thunk. The latch clicked. Then silence except for the creak of leather as I sat on the bench. The carriage smelled of old oil and damp wool. A single lantern hung from a hook above my head and swung when the driver snapped the reins.