C8

"No need to adjust the territory arrangements, Alpha-Prime. My wolf is vacating the ridge," I stated, the patience in my chest worn down to raw bone. I possessed absolutely zero interest in lingering near their hearth to be a ghost at their mating feast.

But as I swung my travelling cloak over my shoulders, a heavy, iron-grip closed firmly around my bare wrist. Draven Calder’s arctic gaze remained unbothered, his dominance pressing lightly against my pulse. "Your beast remains here, Lardon. I will relocate my furs to the lower levels."

I bared my teeth, my lip curling as I prepared to wrench my flesh from his claws, but Draven released his hold first, deliberately widening the physical distance between our packs. "If your scent vanishes from the mountain now, the deception will be impossible to explain to the High Matron when she queries the patrol logs."

So that was the true metric of this arrangement. I stared at him, my inner wolf letting out a silent, incredulous snarl. "You command my presence solely to shield your alignment with Mireya? To make the fabrications to your grandmother smooth?"

What manner of low-tier stray did his beast truly take me for?

Draven met my glare, adjusting the thick iron guards at his wrists with practiced, terrifying composure. "Had your wolf not tracked my perimeter tokens, none of this administrative friction would have breached the lodge."

A suffocating knot formed beneath my ribs. So the breakdown of his perimeter was my fault, then?

Pressing my teeth together until I tasted copper, I forced my aura into absolute submission to keep from roaring. "Acceptable, Alpha-Prime. But you apply your seal to my resignation scroll—before the sun drops."

Draven’s amber eyes narrowed by a fraction, a faint, dangerous smirk touching his jawline. "The terms are verified."

My beast could form no logical understanding of that predatory curve on his lips.

I turned my back and marched straight into the isolation of my allocated chamber.

It required no scholar to decipher his strategy—Draven had deliberately hidden the Frostveil Peak tokens because he intended this ridge to be a private courtship run for Mireya. If my tracking hounds had scented that truth at dawn, my boots never would have touched the mountain trails.

Massaging the throbbing skin of my temple, I tried to purge the venom from my mind. I repeated the oath that I no longer harbored affection for the Calder line, but the rejection still left a bleeding gash in my pride.

I occupied my hands by realigning the leather straps of my pack and reviewing the regional guesthouse records. The master of the ridge maintained a line of winter stallions trained for mountain hunting; running a beast through the snow sounded like a clean distraction from the scent of cedar and lilies.

I headed directly down to the timber stables.

My boots had barely touched the frozen straw when a male's playful, rumbling growl pierced the air from the center stall. "Aziel! Cease your nipping! Are your fangs attempting to claim my neck before the full moon?"

A lazy, teasing rumble drifted from a massive warrior's throat. "Blame the heat of the stallion, Zoraya, not my instincts."

I froze in the center of the walkway.

My vision blurred as I tracked the silhouette. Aziel Crowbane—the warrior who had sworn an ancient blood-oath to guard my youth—shared the back of a black stallion with Zoraya Flint, his thick, scarred arms wrapped completely around the smaller male's waist, one hand directing the leather reins while the other tilted Zoraya’s jaw upward to consume his mouth.

My hunting stare must have radiated too fiercely through the dark. Aziel’s eyes snapped toward my position, his gold irises darkening with instant hostility, a dangerous snarl rippling across his chest as if their intimate binding ritual had been brutally violated by a spy.

My ancestral pride took a mortal blow. For over a decade, Aziel had run at my flank, treating my omega beast as something sacred to his lineage, never once casting a savage tone toward my ears. He had been my first primitive attachment, the wolf who had provided winters of unyielding affection before the war fractured our territory.

Three winters past, when Aziel faced execution in the border courts, I had surrendered my flesh to Draven's collar in exchange for Darius Fenrir’s political promise to reduce Aziel’s sentence to the Bloodmoon Iron Hold. Even if my path had altered, Aziel remained my family—the most vital bloodline in my memory. Now, his beast couldn't even muster a basic greeting; his complete indifference cut deeper than the silver-rot in my bones. What alliance had ever been pure?

I had survived three winters in Draven's den and never claimed his spirit. And Aziel—his wolf had loved my scent once, had he not?

Had the old pack-bonds decayed into nothing but ash? Had even the ties of chosen brothers vanished from the wild?

I shifted my weight to slip back into the timber shadows, refusing to impose my broken rank upon their stall.

Zoraya’s voice cracked through the rafters, "Lardon? Your wolf is tracking the high ridge too! Join our hunting party for the mid-day kill? My companion Mireya and his Alpha are occupying the master lodge as well."

The question left me dazed. So Zoraya ran within Mireya’s inner circle? That meant Aziel likely possessed full knowledge of my disastrous, submission-shattered marriage by this sun-cycle.

Not that a single warrior in the northern sector seemed to care how the discarded mate of the Calder Dominion was enduring the frost.

"My gratitude to your hunting party, but my beast has already consumed its rations," I stated, my inner wolf dropping its head as I turned my boots back toward the snow.

Zoraya watched my retreat, then nudged Aziel’s broad chest with his elbow. "Your blood-brother looks completely drained of essence, Aziel. Is his core failing? Perhaps your beast should track his trail to verify his safety?"

Aziel barely shifted his weight against the leather saddle. "He is a grown male of a recognized lineage. His wolf will survive the mountain frost. There is no logic in fussing over a stray."

"Why does your roar carry such ice toward his name?" Zoraya asked, his brow knitting in confusion.

Aziel lifted his jaw, a crooked, ruthless smile revealing his fangs. "He is merely a brother by name, nothing more. Throughout my three winters behind the iron bars of the hold, only your claws and Kalista’s pack ever brought provisions to my cell. My wolf comprehends exactly which bloodlines hold my loyalty."

Zoraya’s neck flushed a dark crimson, both pleased and humbled by the warrior's devotion. "At least your beast remembers its debts..."

I locked myself within my quarters for the remainder of the sun-cycle.

No matter which mated pair my senses encountered on this ridge, my wolf felt entirely out of alignment with the world.

I was another male's sworn mate, a warrior's chosen brother—once the focal point of two dominant beasts' lives, now completely exiled from their packs.

Why continue to torture my own spirit?

I forced my focus away from the valley, spending hours analyzing international Wraithfang Recon Unit blueprints on the network, swallowing my apothecary capsules, and allowing the heavy sleep of the sick to carry my beast until the following sunrise.

My sole objective today was to descend the mountain.

At the eighth hour of morning, I unlatched my heavy timber door only for the iron hinges across the corridor to groan open simultaneously.

Draven and Mireya emerged from the master suite together.

The Alpha-Prime truly had relocated his furs. Now, at the first light of dawn, he and Mireya were traversing the halls in perfect synchronization. There was no territorial doubt remaining—their beasts had shared the same nesting furs through the entire night cycle.

A violent wave of silver-nausea surged from my core to my throat.

I tore my face away from their proximity, retreating into the darkness of my quarters and slamming the latch. I collapsed over the stone basin, my chest heaving as I tried to purge the sickness—anything to rid my senses of their mingled aroma.

But my stomach remained empty.

My appetite had been failing for moons. Perhaps the silver-rot had advanced into a tier my body could no longer combat.

I stared at the pale, hollow-eyed reflection of the omega in the glass, a primal chill crawling up my spine.

Shifters are so fragile when the bloodline rots, I mused silently.

At least my spirit could find solace in the fact that my mind had awakened before my freedom became completely irreversible.

My wolf still possessed enough sun-cycles to become independent again.

Drawing a jagged breath, I applied a layer of dark runic clay to my features, determined not to permit the Calder dominion to look upon my physical decay.

I requested the lodge-master to summon a winter sleigh to transport my packs down the ridge. Before the driver could arrive, my communication slate chimed with the marker of my maternal elder.

My grandmother, Ilyra Moonveil, was a fierce, unyielding matriarch of the old ways. With my grandfather fallen in the early border wars, Ilyra had expended her entire spirit raising the remaining cubs of our bloodline.

After my dam perished in the winter raids, Ilyra’s tongue had grown remarkably quiet—except when her instincts fretted over my safety.

"Grandma?" I cleared my throat before accepting the link, ensuring my voice carried the strength of a healthy hunter.

"Has your wolf consumed fresh meat this morning, cub?" Ilyra asked, her tone uncharacteristically soft for a matriarch who had commanded war parties.

A sudden warmth bloomed behind my ribs. "I am breaking my fast now, Matriarch. Does your spirit miss my presence already?"

Ilyra let out a soft, dry chuckle over the link. "The borders are quiet today. I have merely finished weaving two heavy winter scarves for your shoulders and Draven’s neck. The northern winds are turning lethal, and these threads will protect your bloodlines from the frost. When will your sleigh pass my territory to claim them? Stay for the evening feast—I will prepare the sweet marrow-ribs your beast favors."

I lowered my eyes, a heavy surge of guilt flickering through my gold irises. "Grandma, your hands should not expend their labor on such gifts for his house."

"The law of the pack is different," Ilyra insisted, her voice dropping to a serious register. "I am fully aware your life is not easy, bound into a ruling lineage like the Calders. My old claws cannot fight your territorial battles, so I provide what protection I can weave. Remain submissive to Draven’s authority, hear me? If the Alpha-Prime possesses an ounce of tribal honor, his beast will treat your rank with justice, will he not?"

My eyes burned with a fierce, suppressed heat. I wiped the corner of my lashes with a scarred thumb. "He has... been heavily occupied with the border councils of late, perhaps—"

"A true wolf always commands time to feed his mate," Ilyra stated, cutting through my defense instantly. "Can your tracks bring both of your beasts to my hearth within the next two sun-turns?"

It had been seasons since Ilyra’s eyes had verified my alignment beside Draven, and her maternal instincts were searching for proof of our bond.

I weighed the danger of her health failing and finally yielded to the link. "Acceptable, Grandma. I will force the journey. Draven will accompany my sleigh."

I resolved that Draven owed my lineage the dignity of delivering the news of our dissolution to my grandmother’s face—his tongue owed her that small measure of tribal peace. At least our packs could sever the vow without an execution.

To an elder of her generation, even the fracturing of a blood-alliance required a spiritual justification.

I refused to let her heart discover the ultimate truth—that Draven had paraded another mate while my collar was still warm. The humiliation would shatter her pride and take a lethal toll on her failing lifeforce. It was far better to construct a gentler explanation, to state before the fire that our inner beasts simply failed to harmonize.

This was a burden Draven’s honor required him to carry.

After a moment of absolute hesitation, I left the security of my chamber and marched down the stone corridor toward the heavy timber door of Draven’s suite.

I noticed the oak latch was left slightly ajar.

I stepped into the threshold, my knuckles raised to strike the wood, but through the narrow gap, my vision locked onto the center of the room: Mireya was standing on the tips of his riding boots, his slender arms locked completely around Draven’s thick neck, the Alpha-Prime’s massive hands resting loosely at the scholar's hips as their jaws tilted together to seal a deep, possessive kiss...

My gold eyes flickered with a sudden, deadened light.

My frame froze on the stone floor.

Suddenly, a pair of aggressive hands slammed into my shoulder blades, shoving my weak frame violently forward. My head spun from the impact, my boots barely gripping the granite flags to prevent my face from striking the threshold.

"Does your low-born wolf possess no tribal shame? Spying upon the private mating rituals of an Alpha-Prime?" Selith Vayne roared, his young face flushed with beta outrage as he glared at my position like my eyes had committed a capital crime against his house.

The violent commotion outside shattered the intimacy of the chamber.

Draven and Mireya appeared at the threshold within a heartbeat.

Mireya, his aristocratic composure cracking for the first time, narrowed his eyes into a freezing glare, his pale lips pressed into a thin, dangerous line as he looked down at my rank.

"Enjoying the view of my courtship, Lardon?" Draven’s strikingly handsome features twisted into a mocking, savage smile, his amber eyes radiating an alpha pressure cold enough to turn the mountain air to ice.

His beast was furious.

He issued no further roar, but my wolf could feel the heavy accusation of treason vibrating from every inch of his massive posture.