Claimed Beneath the Blood Moon

Snow fell in thick, relentless sheets outside Blackthorn Keep, blanketing the jagged peaks of the Northern Territories in a silence so deep it felt like the world held its breath. Inside the ancient stone walls, however, tension crackled like dry wood waiting for a spark. The full moon was three nights away, and with it came the mating ceremony that would bind two of the strongest packs in the north. Everyone knew the stakes. Everyone knew the players. No one spoke of the one who had been erased from the story long before it began.Ashley moved through the lower corridors with the practiced quiet of someone who had learned early that noise drew eyes, and eyes drew punishment. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, strands escaping like rebellious threads she had no time to tame. The woolen dress she wore was patched at the knees and wrists, once a deep green but now faded to the color of old moss. It had belonged to Clara once, before it was declared unfit

The second day bled into the third with relentless speed, as though time itself conspired to drag the mating ceremony closer. Blackthorn Keep thrummed with final preparations. Banners of black and silver snapped in the wind above the battlements. Torches were set along every path leading to the sacred grove where the rite would take place beneath the blood moon. The air carried the sharp scent of pine smoke and roasting meat from the kitchens, mingling with the metallic tang of freshly sharpened blades. Warriors drilled in the courtyard, their breaths fogging in the cold, while elders chanted low prayers to the Moon Goddess in the chapel tower.Ashley felt every heartbeat like a countdown.She had barely slept. The bond with Damien pulsed through her even in dreams, pulling her toward him across stone walls and guarded corridors. She woke flushed and restless, the memory of his mouth on hers burning behind her eyelids. Every brush of fabric against her skin reminded her of his hands.

The red moon lingered until the final breath of night, then bled slowly into gray dawn. Snow began to fall again, soft fat flakes drifting down like silent witnesses. By the time the first pale light touched Blackthorn Keep, the duel circle had been prepared in the central courtyard. A wide ring of packed earth ringed by iron braziers, flames snapping in defiance of the cold. The pack gathered once more, though the mood had shifted from reverent awe to tense anticipation. Whispers moved through the ranks like wind through dry leaves.Ashley stood at the edge of the circle, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak Damien had draped over her shoulders before he was taken to the arming chamber. The white silk gown from the night before lay discarded in the tower; now she wore simple wool leggings, boots, and a long tunic beneath the cloak. The bite mark on her neck pulsed steadily, a living reminder of what had changed forever. She touched it absently, fingers tracing the raised edges where his teet

Morning arrived wrapped in pale light and the hush of fresh snow. Blackthorn Keep woke slowly, as though reluctant to leave the dream of the night run. Smoke rose from every chimney in thin gray columns that bent under the weight of the cold. In the courtyard servants swept paths clear while warriors checked weapons and tack, their breath clouding the air like small storms. The pack moved with a new rhythm now, quieter than before the duel but steadier, as though the howl under the moon had knit something broken back together. Ashley stood on the balcony of the Alpha’s chambers, wrapped in a thick wool robe lined with rabbit fur. The torc still rested at her throat, cool against her skin even after hours of warmth. She traced its twisted silver with one fingertip, feeling the faint pulse of the bond that linked her to Damien. He slept inside, sprawled across the wide bed, one arm flung out where she had been moments earlier. His breathing came deep and eve

The high meadow lay cradled between two jagged ridges, a wide bowl of snow-dusted grass frozen hard beneath the winter sun. Wind moved constantly here, sweeping down from the glaciers with a low, constant moan that carried the scent of iron and pine. The sky stretched vast and pale above, the kind of sky that made every sound feel sharper, every movement more exposed. They arrived at midday on the third day, twenty Blackthorn riders in tight formation. Damien and Ashley rode at the fore, black cloaks snapping behind them like wings. Clara flanked Ashley on the right, Gideon on Damien's left, Ronan bearing the silver-thorn banner high. The rest fanned out in a loose crescent, hands resting near sword hilts, eyes scanning the opposite ridge. Across the meadow, twenty Ironvein warriors waited in a matching line. Their cloaks were darker, edged with black fur, banners showing the anvil struck by lightning. At the center stood Jarl Torvald Ironvein himself: a towering figure in his lat