C6

"Mireya Duskrell just cleared the Alpha-Prime's inner chamber, Lord Vexley," Ronzek Hale rumbled, his thick bared arms crossed over his chest as two lower-ranking omegas from the clerical circle scrambled to gather Mireya’s velvet traveling satchel. "High Matron Seraph Kain sent word that Alpha-Prime Calder is already holding the mid-day feast in the ceremonial great hall. He commanded us to escort Mireya the moment his spirit was rested from the border flight."

"And here is the warm, spiced bone-broth Master Calder personally steeped for your journey, Moon Scholar Duskrell, so your beast may savor the essence on the path," another pack assistant whined, bowing low.

Mireya’s delicate, sharp features wore only the faintest shadow of a superior smile as he accepted the submission of the dominion's hunters with practiced aristocratic grace. He radiated the calm, terrifying confidence of a high-born submissive who belonged exactly at the right hand of the throne, with every wolf in the stronghold treating his scent as that of the future Alpha-Consort.

My inner beast coiled in bitter surprise. Draven's war room was a fortress of sacred territorial maps and confidential pack treaties, strictly off-limits to any wolf under a command rank. Yet for Mireya, it had been transformed into a plush nesting lounge, every single detail arranged for his physical comfort. I thought of how, across three long winter cycles of sharing the cold stones of his den, I had never once been permitted to cross the threshold of his private study.

True pack alignment or complete indifference—did my wolf truly require any further scars to stop questioning the disparity?

"Lord Vexley, could your boots please vacate the center of the flagstones?" Ronzek’s voice carried a growling edge of irritation as he bared his teeth, pointing out that my frail frame was blocking Mireya’s path to the elevator shaft.

I pressed my lips together, my throat tightening. Even though my spirit had long since abandoned its desire for Draven's favor, this blatant double standard still drew blood—a cruel reminder of how invisible my devotion had been, how much lifeforce I had poured into the dirt for absolutely nothing.

I lowered my head, stepping back toward the shadow of the pillars, and fixed my gaze on the assistant. "If the Alpha-Prime possesses a free interval between the border councils, remind his beast to sign my scroll of resigna—"

"Draven?"

Mireya, already stepping onto the iron floor of the elevator, paused as his ears twitched at the mention of the Alpha's true name.

His gold eyes turned cool, calculating, and utterly detached as he swept them across my plain, unadorned leather tunic. "Is this stray an active laborer within the fortress?"

I frowned, my chest burning. Mireya knew my lineage, but his pride refused to acknowledge that an omega of my rank held a position within the Mooncrest Relations Division.

Ronzek jumped in quickly, his head bowed to the scholar. "Yes, Moon Scholar. This is Lardon Vexley from the lower communications circle."

Mireya’s gaze drifted away toward the high rafters, his tone completely flat. "That explains the lack of order."

Naturally, the Relations Division had botched the suppression of his latest border scandal; it made perfect sense if an undisciplined wolf like myself was handling the network threads.

With a faint, mocking curve of his lips, Mireya added, "It appears the Calder Dominion has grown remarkably lenient—common omegas addressing the Alpha-Prime by his birth name."

He wasn't even granting me the dignity of a direct look.

Ronzek’s features soured with secondary shame, but the elevator doors were already sliding shut, Mireya dismissing the entire matter from his superior mind before the iron fully closed.

The moment the mechanism dropped, Ronzek whipped his fierce glare toward my face. "Lord Vexley, has your beast forgotten the primal hierarchy of the pack? This is a sovereign dominion, not some rogue camp in the marshes—cease using the Alpha-Prime’s sacred first name. Are you deliberately trying to deceive the juvenile hunters into doubting the chain of command?"

"From this sunrise forward, your tongue addresses him only as Alpha-Prime Calder. Unless your wolf is actively seeking an exile order into the waste."

My jaw tightened until the bone ached. I had spent winters breaking my own spirit to accommodate Draven's harsh temperament, so much so that even my formal departure from his service was being mocked as a desperate ploy to catch his eye.

Did every hound in this fortress truly believe my life revolved around begging for Draven's attention?

And Mireya—his position was so absolute he didn't even register my existence as a threat. He never feared I would expose the secret blood vow that bound me to Draven. Why should he? That was the supreme arrogance of a mate who held the Alpha's obsession. Even if my wolf roared the truth until my throat bled, I would only appear as the pathetic, low-ranking stray attempting to fracture a divine alignment.

That afternoon, I stripped my personal quarters of my remaining belongings, refusing to wait another sun-turn for Draven's ink on my papers. Before the fifth watch of the sun, I made my way down to the valley flats where the grand Wraithfang Recon Unit trials were being held.

Thanks to the runic invitation Thalia Raventhorne had slipped into my palm, breaching the perimeter guards was effortless.

The ancestors smiled upon my path—I hadn't been within the massive stone arena long before my senses caught the sharp, distinct scent of Orion Greyclaw, surrounded by an eager circle of young warlords. The exact moment his gold eyes locked onto my frame, his handsome features froze into solid ice. He deliberately turned his shoulder to my position, continuing his telepathic exchange with the tech-barons of the sector.

I hesitated, the old weight of my failures pressing against my lungs, and chose not to approach his circle. Instead, I wandered the vast iron pavilion. The gathering was immense, drawing the most formidable Alphas and innovators from every sovereign territory.

Orion Greyclaw, the youngest rising star in Lunarcore Innovation, was basked in the full glory of the spotlight. Despite everything, my inner wolf felt a genuine swell of pride for him.

After half an hour, the silver-rot in my bones began to take its toll, my stamina flagging far faster than it ever had in my youth. I claimed a vacant bench near the testing tracks to catch my breath.

A pair of polished leather riding boots stopped directly in front of my knees. I lifted my head to find Orion glaring down at my carcass, his striking, sharp jaw set in a heavy scowl. "Well, look what the wind dragged from the brush. Decided to stop foraging for roots in the Calder dirt, have you? Planning to learn how to run with real wolves again?"

"Forgive me, Orion..." I whispered, my eyes stinging with a sudden, unbidden moisture.

The Alpha's irritation was palpable through his aura, but his ancient affection for my beast made it impossible for him to leave me rotting on the bench. "What are you offering a confession for? If any entity deserves an apology, it is the northern territory for you monopolizing a common kennel for three winter cycles. Go howl your regrets to the Moon Mother, Vexley, not to my face."

A fractured laugh broke through my exhaustion, tears threatening to spill.

Truthfully, Orion had known my scent would grace the arena today.

Thalia, with her loose tongue, had already detailed my entire rebellion to him before the sun reached its peak.

"Your wolf is not late," Orion said, letting out a heavy, ragged breath as he cast his eyes toward the iron banners above. "As long as your beast has finally unclasped that slave-collar, it is never too late to reclaim the sky. With your intellect, what sovereign pack wouldn't trade their vaults for your mind? Nighthowl Systems only carries true dominance because your designs are etched into our armor."

My technical innovations had once earned me a direct selection into the high research sanctuaries before I was of age.

My wolf should never have been left to wither into dust within an Alpha's shadow.

For cycles, the entire territory had marveled at the devastating Wraithfang Recon Unit, attributing the brilliant engineering solely to Orion’s name. Warlords lined up at Nighthowl’s borders, desperate to trade gold for the units because of the Wraithfang's unmatched capability. But the truth remained buried in the dirt: it was my mind that had achieved those runic breakthroughs at just twenty winters old—a standard no scholar in the northern lands had managed to surpass even now.

I had granted the rest of the world three winters to catch up to my shadow, but not a single engineer had managed to outpace the structural laws I had carved back then.

"Your wolf truly harbors no anger regarding my return to Nighthowl Systems?" I asked, my voice trembling with the weight of my emotion.

Orion snorted, crossing his massive arms. "Thalia already authorized the alliance on her own authority, granting your beast a full partnership based on your mechanical runes. I am merely curious to witness what manner of savage leap your mind will bring to our vanguard. Present your flesh at the war room Monday dawn!"

He always projected the harshness of a rogue commander, but I knew his inner beast guarded his kin with absolute devotion.

A genuine smile broke across my face, perhaps the first true light my wolf had felt since the winter I married. "My gratitude is yours, Orion."

Orion merely gave a gruff, dismissive huff and turned his back to mingle with the incoming trade delegates.

The suffocating weight that had crushed my ribs for three years finally lifted from my chest.

Suddenly, the dim light of the pavilion seemed to brighten, my physical exhaustion momentarily driven back by a surge of pure, primal focus.

I rose to my feet and moved toward the glass partitions to examine one of the newly calibrated scout units on display.

Up ahead, a sudden wave of commotion and submissive bowing swept through the dense crowd of shifting wolves.

I tracked the scent markers and saw Draven Calder and Mireya Duskrell breaching the main gates, flanked closely by Tavros Kane and Lucien Mordane.

Draven’s sheer alpha presence alone sent a physical tremor through the room—lesser wolves parted instantly, hunting for any opportunity to present their throats in greeting.

I watched the deliberate, protective manner in which Draven kept his massive shoulder pressed against Mireya’s flank, shielding the scholar from the press of the crowd. I tore my eyes away, vowing to grant their shadow no more of my spirit.

I turned my absolute focus back to the intricate runic design of the unit before my eyes.

Naturally, Lucien and Tavros had spotted my scent signature the moment I turned. When they noted that the Alpha-Prime didn't so much as glance toward my corner, both warriors let out a relaxed, mocking breath.

This omega, Lardon, was truly an exceptional breed of shameless.

How had a discarded stray managed to secure an invitation to an elite military trial?

He must have crawled through absolute degradation just to place his carcass where Draven might look upon him.

I, however, was completely lost in the mathematical beauty of the engineering before me. By the time I lifted my gaze from the core, Tavros and Lucien were already blocking my retreat, with Draven and Mireya advancing steadily in their wake.

Tavros sneered, his hand resting on his bone hilt. "You are merely a lodge-keeper who understands how to wash furs and boil broth—what business does your low rank have poking around military warcraft? Do you possess any comprehension of how many moonstones these cores cost? If your clumsy claws fracture a single rune, do you truly believe you could pay the blood-debt with the pocket change Draven tosses to his kennel?"

Unbelievable. A border stray pretending to analyze the elite technology of the high houses.

Lucien gave me a sharp, joyless smirk that never reached his golden eyes.

Even if the crossing at the billiards club had been a simple mistake of tracking, what excuse could my wolf offer now?

There was no earthly method by which an omega of my standing could comprehend the complexity of a Wraithfang unit.

Even if I desired to play a part to catch my master's eye, couldn't my mind at least select a believable deception?

"Lord Vexley, did your beast truly believe that stealing a path into this trial would alter your fate?" Tavros sighed with theatrical pity. "Mireya is the genuine article—holding a Moon Scholar Rank directly from the Shadowpine Lunar Institute. Perhaps your wolf should sit in the dirt and take notes on true bloodline capability."

Pretending to analyze military runes, solely to bait Draven’s attention? Pathetic.

Just then, Draven and Mireya stepped into the circle, catching the final echo of Tavros’s mocking words. Mireya remained perfectly calm, his features displaying no emotion whatsoever.

He understood the warrior's implication perfectly—Tavros was accusing my wolf of trying to mimic the scholar's intellectual standing.

Draven, by contrast, merely cast his dark, inscrutable gaze across my pale face. "The wilderness is small."

His tone was completely casual, almost entirely indifferent to my presence.

But my inner wolf heard the deeper growl beneath his words.

Did his beast misunderstand my intentions, just like his sycophantic warriors and the rest of the territory?

Clearly, the Alpha-Prime had zero intention of interacting with a discarded mate in front of the high houses, wary of fueling any scandalous rumors regarding the stability of his dominion. He didn't grant my throat a single opening to explain—he simply offered that one dismissive remark, then guided Mireya toward the central piloting platform.

Tavros, brushing past my shoulder, added a final snarl. "Why not mount the stands and watch Mireya command the Wraithfang unit? Your wolf should at least learn what real dominance looks like before you return to the kitchen."

Lucien merely shoved his hands into his leather belt, far too bored by my lack of resistance to trouble his tongue any further.

Across the great expanse of the arena, Mireya ascended the stone stage.

The entire assembly of wolves erupted in a deafening roar of approval.

Mireya curled his lips into a small, supremely confident smile, arching a single dark brow down toward Draven from his elevated position. The Alpha-Prime answered him with a subtle, dangerous smile of his own.

Their brief, silent exchange, so exclusive and heavy with mutual understanding, only fueled the feral excitement vibrating through the iron hall.