Rejected Omega Was Told to Sing the Luna Hymn as a Joke – But Her Voice Left the Alpha King Speechless

The Lesson of Silence

We’re taught that our worth is written in our bones. Destiny reveals itself through power, through strength, through the animal that rises beneath our skin.

The stories promise us transformation, that the weak become mighty, that patience rewards the faithful, and that truth always surfaces like cream. But when you’re standing in a banquet hall full of wolves who can tear through steel and you’re the only one whose bones refuse to break into anything at all, you learn a different lesson entirely.

Some of us were never meant for the fairy tale. I learned this on the night they asked me to sing.

It was not because they wanted to hear beauty, nor because they craved art. It was because cruelty, when wrapped in laughter, doesn’t leave bruises anyone can see.

The Alpha King was visiting our pack for the first time in a decade on an inspection tour, they called it. Everyone knew what it really meant: our alpha was weak, our borders were contested, and the king was here to decide whether we deserve to survive or be absorbed into stronger territories, our bloodlines scattered like ash.

The Furniture of the Pack

The whole pack had been preparing for weeks. The unmated females had been preining, practicing their walks, their smiles, and their submission.

Everyone knew the rumors. The king had no Luna, no mate, and a wolf without a mate is a wolf incomplete—even a king, especially a king.

I wasn’t part of the pining; I was part of the furniture. In a world where your wolf defines your value, where the animal inside you determines whether you’re predator or prey, I was something worse than prey.

I was nothing. I was twenty-three years old and I’d never shifted, never felt the crack of bones reshaping, and never tasted the copper-bright freedom of running on four legs instead of two.

“Omega” is what they called me, though even that felt generous. Omegas were still wolves; omegas still had animals sleeping in their souls.

I just had silence. The physicians had examined me as a child, their hands cold and clinical as they pressed against my spine and my skull, searching for the blockage, the defect, the explanation.

Born Broken

They found nothing wrong, which meant, of course, that everything was wrong. My wolf wasn’t trapped or sleeping; she simply didn’t exist.

In a pack built on animal hierarchy and the dominance of fang and claw, a human was less than worthless. A human was an insult to the bloodline.

My father, the pack’s Beta and the Alpha’s right hand, had never quite forgiven me for it. He could not forgive the failure to shift, the humiliation of having his only child born broken, and especially not what came after.

The physicians had other findings, too, secondary diagnoses delivered with clinical detachment. My womb was scarred, collapsed, and useless.

Whether from the same genetic defect that stole my wolf or some other cosmic joke, I would never bear children. I would never carry a pack’s future in my belly, nor fulfill even the most basic function expected of a female wolf.

I wasn’t just wolfless; I was barren. In our world, that made me disposable.

Hidden in the Narrow Spaces

My father’s solution had been elegant in its cruelty: keep me hidden. I lived in the narrow space between visibility and exile, performing menial tasks and staying silent during pack gatherings.

I ate meals in the kitchen with the elderly and the injured. I was permitted to exist as long as I didn’t remind anyone that I did.

I’d made my peace with it, or at least I’d learned to bury the howling grief deep enough that I could breathe around it. I had my books, I had my voice, and I had my stories.

At night, alone in my small room at the edge of the pack house, I would write fairy tales. They were mostly romance and magic and transformations—all the things I would never have.

I’d spin worlds where curses could be broken, where love saw past the surface, and where happy endings weren’t reserved only for the strong. It was pathetic, maybe, but it was mine.

The night of the king’s arrival, I’d been assigned to kitchen duty, washing dishes and preparing serving trays. I stayed well away from the grand hall where the actual pack members would dine, grateful for it.

The Bitter Request

The less I was seen, the less I could be hurt. But then Angelia found me.

Angelia was my half-sister, my father’s legitimate child from his true mate. She was beautiful, powerful, and crowned by a silver wolf that made grown males whimper with desire.

She was everything I wasn’t, and she’d spent our entire lives making sure I knew it. She stood in the kitchen doorway wearing a dress that cost more than I’d see in a year.

“There you are,”

her voice dripped honey and venom in equal measure. Her dark hair was swept up to expose the mating gland at her neck, unmarked, but not for long if she had her way.

“Father wants you in the great hall.”

My hands stilled in the wash water.

“Why?”

Her smile was a beautiful, terrible thing.

“The king requested entertainment—something authentic, local flavor.”

She examined her nails, each one painted the color of fresh blood.

“Father thought you might sing for us.”

The elderly cook beside me inhaled sharply. I felt ice crawl down my spine.

“Angelia, it’s not a request, Catherine.”

My name in her mouth sounded like a curse.

“Unless you’d prefer father explain to the Alpha King why his Beta’s daughter refuses a direct command during a formal visit.”

We both knew what that would mean. Insubordination during a royal inspection could be grounds for execution or, worse, expulsion.

The Mockery of the Hymn

A wolfless, barren woman alone in the territories wouldn’t survive a week.

“I’ll need to change,”

I started, looking down at my kitchen dress stained with grease and soap.

“No time. And besides,”

her eyes ran over me with calculated disdain.

“Authenticity, remember? We wouldn’t want you to look like you belong with the actual pack members.”

Twenty minutes later, I stood at the edge of the great hall, my heart a thunder in my throat. The room was magnificent, with vaulted ceilings painted with the history of our kind and long tables laden with food.

Everywhere was the scent of power, wolves in human form but barely contained. I could feel their animals pressing against their skin and sense the constant evaluation and hierarchy establishing itself.

At the head table was him: Alpha King Charles Washington. I’d seen paintings and heard descriptions, but nothing prepared me for the reality of him.

He wasn’t handsome in any conventional way. His face was too harsh, too angular, carved from stone and shadow.

His eyes were the color of winter storms, pale gray and pitiless. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, pulled back to expose a face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile.

The Luna Hymn

He wore his power like a second skin. Every wolf in the room oriented toward him unconsciously, the way flowers turned toward the sun.

He was terrifying, and he was looking directly at me.

“Ah, there she is,”

my father’s voice boomed across the hall, artificially jovial.

“Your Majesty, may I present my daughter Catherine? She has a certain talent for music.”

The king’s expression didn’t change.

“Indeed?”

“We thought,”

the Alpha interjected, shooting my father a conspiratorial grin,

“that Your Majesty might enjoy hearing the Luna Hymn. It’s traditional, sung at maidings, at coronations… a sacred piece.”

Someone snickered. The sound rippled through the hall like blood and water, and I understood.

The Luna Hymn was sacred. It was performed only by mated females, only by Lunas and high-ranking she-wolves.

It was a song of power and fertility, of the moon goddess’s blessing on a complete union. Having me—wolfless, barren, unmated—sing it was a mockery and a joke.

They were making me humiliate myself for the king’s entertainment. I looked at my father; his eyes held a warning to comply or be cast out.

I looked at Angelia; her smile was radiant with cruelty. I looked at the king, and his expression was nothing—blank, waiting.

“I would be honored, Your Majesty,”

I whispered. What else could I say?

A Voice from the Shadows

The hall fell silent; even the servants stilled. Someone dimmed the lights, making it theatrical and making it worse.

I stood there in my stained kitchen dress, my hair falling from its braid and my hands trembling. I opened my mouth to sing the one song I had no right to voice.

But here’s what they didn’t know; here’s what no one knew because no one had ever cared to ask. I could sing.

I could not just carry a tune or hum along. I could sing the kind of singing that came from somewhere deeper than training, deeper than practice.

It was the kind that came from all the grief and longing and desperate, furious hope I’d buried so deep. It had transformed into something else entirely—something like magic.

So I sang the Luna Hymn, and I destroyed them. The first note left my throat like a bird escaping a cage.

I didn’t sing it the way it was meant to be sung, with the proud, powerful resonance of a Luna claiming her place. I couldn’t, for that wasn’t my story to tell.

Instead, I sang it the way it lived in my heart: as a lament, as a love letter to something I would never have, as grief dressed in melody.