6: The register is empty

CRYSSARA

The elder holds the paper higher, and the wind blows viciously at its edges.

"By old pack custom, once an Alpha refuses a rejection, the mate's share belongs to him," he says. "Open the gate."

Dorian looms right behind him, that same predatory smile curling across his face, the same smile he wore when he chose Seraphina at the shelter, a smile already drunk on victory, already feasting on what he believes is his.

I grip the cold iron bars until my knuckles scream. I have just one hour left. That is all they gave me, and I will not waste a single breath of it.

Quill steps up beside me, surprisingly calm. He opens his bag slowly and pulls out one book: the ceremony register. it has a brown cover, with thin pages worn soft with age. He holds it so every face on the other side of the gate can see it.

"There's no signature," he says, his voice slicing through the tension, finding its mark. "There's no moon mark. Look for yourselves."

He flips a page. It is blank. He flips another... Still blank.

Dorian's smile does not waver. "That means nothing to me. I refused the rejection. The claim stands."

"The mate ceremony never happened tonight," Quill says, and he does not raise his voice, he doesn't need to; the words themselves land merciless. "No bond was ever made in law. Before the ceremony, a she-wolf can reject freely. A refusal carries no power here. You have nothing to claim."

The two elders lean in, their certainty crumbling. One snatches the book, their fingers dragging down the empty lines as though he might conjure ink from nothing through mere desperation. He shoots a look at the other elder, a look thick with dread, with the sick understanding of a gamble lost. They hoped I would not know. They bet everything on my ignorance, and it has cost them.

Lyanna presses close to my shoulder. "Is that enough?" she hisses, her nails digging into my arm.

I do not look away from Dorian, I do not dare give him the satisfaction. "It has to be."

Caelus has not moved, but his eyes track Dorian's every twitch for a cracking composure.

Dorian's fingers curl into fists, then he releases it, it curls again.

One elder clears his throat, the sound brittle as breaking glass in the charged air. "The register is empty," he says. "The claim fails under the custom."

"There is no bond to enforce the rule," the second elder snaps, each word a nail driven into Dorian's ambitions.

The six warriors shifts back a little. Their boots scraping stone, unease rippling through their ranks. No one speaks. The quiet stretches like a blade held to the throat, waiting for someone to bleed.

Dorian's smile shatters completely. His jaw clenches hard enough that I could hear his muscles move. Fury replaces charm, not remorse, never remorse, only the raw violence of a man watching his prize dissolve before his eyes. Something he believed was already his has slipped through his fingers, and the lost claws at him, impossible to hide.

He slams his fist against the gate, and the iron vibrates under the blow. He moves closer.

"You planned this," he snarls, voice dripping with venom, each word barely leashed. "You knew the papers were never signed. You made a fool of me in front of my own pack."

I hold his gaze, refusing to blink, refusing to give him even a flicker of satisfaction. "I rejected you this morning. The ceremony was never going to happen. You just refused to listen."

"You are still under Ashfang protection," he roars, with rage seeping through every word he speaks, spit flying against the bars.

"I walked out." I let the words fall like stones into still water, watching them sink and destroy.

His hands wrench against the iron bars, veins straining against skin until they threaten to tear through. The metal shrieks in protest beneath his grip.

Caelus advances one silent step, a warning carved into every line of his body.

Dorian's eyes dart to him, then snap back to me, dangerously hunting for any crack to exploit, any weakness to tear open.

Quill holds the register open, steady as judgment itself. "The law is clear," he says, meeting Dorian's glare without blinking. "There's no signature. No moon mark, no bond. The claim ends here, and there's nothing you can do."

The first elder takes the book back. "We'll withdraw the paper," he says, his voice flat, drained of all authority it once held. "For now."

They retreat, the warriors falling into step behind them like shadows fleeing light.

Dorian does not retreat. He stares at me through the iron, his eyes burning with something far uglier than disappointment, something unforgiving, something that promises this is not over. His breath comes ragged, each exhale a threat unspoken.

"Fine. Keep your lodge," he snarls, his voice dropping, cold and venomous. "For thirty days. The Alpha Council does not let a wolfless omega hold land alone. After that, it is ours. And so are you."