Chapter Twenty – The Ceremony

The forest had been transformed.

Nestled within the heart of the territory, the sacred clearing was a place of old magic, a hallowed grove passed down through generations. Moonlight filtered through the tall, ancient trees that stood like guardians, their silver-drenched leaves whispering secrets into the wind. A natural amphitheater of moss-covered stone ringed the space, creating a circle as old as the legends themselves. The earth here pulsed with quiet power, as if the gods themselves had once walked its soil. Torches burned in sconces carved from twisted roots, casting a golden glow that danced across bark and bare shoulders.

The entire pack had gathered, wolves and half-breeds alike. Warriors stood in sleek black tunics trimmed with the colors of their rank, their blades polished, their expressions somber. Elders wore robes of deep green and bone white, their weathered faces reverent. Children clung to their mothers, their eyes wide with wonder. Music floated from wooden flutes and low drums, the rhythm ancient and pulsing with ceremony. This was more than a marking. It was history repeating. A new Luna chosen.

Ilia stood off to the side, tucked within the edges of the crowd where shadows kept her company. Nessa stood beside her, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "This is it," she whispered. "You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s... breathtaking."

Ilia didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the ceremonial path carved through the crowd, lined in crushed petals and glowing with soft enchanted light. Her heart beat loud in her ears.

From the far end of the clearing, movement stirred.

Caelan emerged from the trees, his presence a force of gravity.

He wore a black ceremonial tunic open at the chest, his skin dusted with streaks of ash and glimmering runes painted in silver. His short dark hair was neatly styled, accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw and the intensity of his blue gaze. Power radiated from him in waves, raw and barely restrained. The wolves lowered their heads as he passed, the weight of his alpha presence bending even the air.

Beside him walked Derrin, his beta and closest confidant, dressed similarly though with his tunic fastened and his expression tight.

And then she came.

Helena emerged on the arm of an elder, her golden gown clinging to every inch of her tall, willowy frame. A veil of translucent crimson fluttered behind her like smoke, catching on the wind and swirling around her like fire. Her lips were painted a deep berry, her cheekbones shimmering with dusted gold. She looked like royalty. A goddess crowned in anticipation.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as she took her place across from Caelan at the center of the sacred circle. The drums slowed, a heavy beat echoing like a heartbeat. The elder raised his hands, calling silence, and the ceremony began.

Ilia felt something twist in her chest, a slow aching pull she couldn’t name. She didn’t see Caelan glance once at Helena.

But she also didn’t see him look for her either—only that his hands were fisted at his sides and his jaw clenched tight, like a man enduring a fate he didn’t choose. As the elder began reciting the ancient words and stirring the sacred potion that would release Caelan’s inner aura, Ilia felt a strange tension in the air, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.

The elder’s voice rose, aged and trembling but rich with authority, as he recited the ancient invocation in the Old Tongue. The words moved through the crowd like smoke—foreign, sacred, and laced with a magic that crackled across the skin. Each syllable carried weight, etched into the memory of the earth beneath their feet. This was not simply a tradition—it was a forging. A binding of power, spirit, and legacy.

Caelan did not move.

His chest lifted in slow, deliberate breaths as if each one were a battle. The silver runes painted over his collarbones shimmered faintly, reacting to the magic building in the clearing. But his hands remained clenched at his sides, knuckles pale against his sun-warmed skin. His eyes were unreadable—two shards of stormlight caught in a face carved from restraint. He stared straight ahead, not at Helena, not at the crowd, but somewhere distant—somewhere Ilia couldn’t see.

Nessa nudged her gently. “He looks like a god,” she breathed.

Ilia’s throat felt dry. She said nothing.

At the center of the circle, the elder poured the sacred potion into a carved obsidian bowl. The liquid swirled, thick and iridescent, like starlight made molten. It hissed softly when it touched the bowl, the sound oddly alive. With a solemn bow, the elder held it out toward Caelan.

The Alpha stepped forward.

Ilia’s breath caught.

Each step he took crackled with rising power, the ground seeming to pulse beneath his boots. A hush fell over the clearing as if even the wind had paused to bear witness.

Caelan lifted the bowl.

For a moment, nothing.

And then, as he drank, a surge of energy tore through the clearing like a clap of thunder—silent, yet felt in the marrow. The silver runes across his body ignited, burning bright as if lit from within. His aura unfurled around him in waves of shimmering heat and force, radiating from his skin like wildfire.

The air grew thick, electric.

Helena’s lips parted, her eyes fluttering closed as the energy sought her out—drawn to her like a magnet. Her arms trembled at her sides, her body responding to the surge of magic even before it reached her.

Ilia watched, frozen, as the first tendrils of power reached Helena’s chest.

The mark would appear any second now.

And yet… Caelan hadn’t taken his eyes off the horizon. He looked like a man at war with himself, muscles taut, chest rising too fast.

Ilia didn’t understand why—but deep in her gut, something felt wrong.

Something felt unfinished.