4: The wedding ritual

Lena’s legs buckled as they dragged her forward, the rough stone beneath her feet scraping her skin raw. The soldiers' grips were cruel, steel fingers bruising her arms as they hauled her through the threshold of the great hall and into the night beyond.

The air outside was bitter, sharp like a blade. It cut against her torn skin, carrying the acrid scent of burning herbs and something far fouler, blood.

Before her, the ritual ground stretched wide and desolate. Towering black pillars ringed the clearing like silent sentinels, carved with ancient runes that shimmered faintly beneath the crimson glow of the blood moon. Fires roared in iron braziers, their flames leaping into the air as if hungry for flesh.

A hush fell over the gathered pack.

Faces surrounded her, hostile and eager. Some twisted with cruel amusement, others solemn as though they stood witness to a sacred rite. They had not come to observe, but to revel in her pain.

At the center stood the altar, a monolith of obsidian stone. It was ancient and cold, its surface soaked in generations of blood. And beside it waited her captor.

Alpha Darius.

He stood bare-chested, the firelight dancing across the runes painted red upon his skin. His dark hair flowed past his shoulders like a wild mane. A golden mask concealed half his face. One eye burned crimson. The other glinted with a cold, piercing blue.

He was death clothed in the flesh of a man.

His gaze met hers. Lena’s breath caught.

She was forced to her knees before him. The stone cut into her flesh, sharp and merciless. Still, she made no sound.

"Begin," Darius said.

The word struck like iron against stone. Cold. Unyielding.

Her chin rose, though her limbs trembled.

From the shadows emerged a figure.

Not some stooped hag but a woman of striking beauty, robed in crimson that shimmered like molten rubies. Her eyes glowed violet, alive with power. Her voice, when it came, was soft and sweet, though beneath it stirred something older and colder.

The witch.

With practiced grace, she drew a dagger shaped like the crescent moon. It was black as night and pulsed with ancient power.

A guard seized Lena’s wrist and yanked it forward.

She resisted.

He tightened his grip.

The dagger touched her skin, cold as the grave, and then pain lanced through her. The blade sliced clean.

Lena gasped as her blood spilled into a bowl, steam rising as it met the night. The pain was sharp, but worse still was the fire that followed. Dark. Twisting. It moved through her veins like poison.

The witch marked her with her own blood. Brow, collarbone, lips.

"Sanguine ligatur consummatum est. In carne ligatum, in fato aeterno devinctum." she said. Her voice echoed like stone grinding in a crypt. 

(The bond is sealed in blood. Bound in flesh, bound by eternal fate.)

Lena’s body shuddered. The blood was more than blood. It was power, old and binding.

Darius approached and took her chin in hand. He lifted her face until her eyes met his.

"You are mine now," he said. His voice was thick with command.

The crowd erupted.

The witch raised the bowl and poured the rest of the blood over Lena’s head. It soaked her hair, ran in red rivulets down her face, and stained her red gown with crimson.

Then she turned to Darius and offered him the dagger.

He took it without looking away.

He dragged it across his palm. Blood welled dark and hot.

"Drink," he said and pressed the wound to her lips.

Lena turned her head away.

"Drink," he repeated, softer now, yet filled with menace.

Magic coiled around her like a serpent. Her lips parted against her will. They touched his flesh. Blood filled her mouth, thick and metallic.

And she swallowed.

A scream ripped from her throat.

Pain, savage and wild, coursed through her. It set her blood aflame and tore her soul from its place. Her body convulsed.

The pack cheered.

Darius smiled. "Good girl."

He smeared blood down her cheek like a lover’s caress.

"You learn quickly."

But Lena was not learning. She was breaking.

The witch stepped forward again, holding a chalice of dark liquid.

"The final seal," she said.

Darius took it and brought it to her lips.

"Drink," he said. "And you are mine in body, mind, and soul."

Lena’s eyes widened. Her heart pounded. She tried to turn her face away.

She could not.

The potion touched her tongue.

And fire consumed her.

It tore her apart from within, flesh from bone, soul from self. Her back arched. Her scream vanished beneath the roar of magic.

She collapsed, twitching.

The pack howled.

Darius knelt at her side. He seized her chin and forced her eyes open.

"Welcome home, wife," he whispered.

Then, darkness claimed her.

---

Later...

A scream shattered the stillness, raw and soul-rending.

Lena writhed, bound by unseen chains, her body convulsing beneath the cruel aftershock of the blood oath. The ancient magic that tethered her soul now burned through her, vile and unrelenting. Her cries rang out through the stone halls, anguished, broken cries echoing like the laments of the damned.

No one came.

None dared.

High above, in the sanctuary of his private chamber, Darius heard.

He stilled.

His hands gripped Scarlet’s hips, fingers biting into her pale skin as he claimed her without tenderness, his breath sharp against the chill air. Her moans filled the room, soft and eager, but his mind drifted elsewhere.

Another scream, Lena’s, pierced the air, more wretched than the last.

He paused, then spoke, voice low and edged with command. “Turn your back to me.”

Scarlet obeyed, ever eager to please. She shifted, presenting herself to him, her body pliant beneath his hands. Darius drove into her once more, his movements unyielding, fueled not by lust for the woman beneath him, but by the agony echoing through the stone.

Scarlet gasped, her voice breathy. “Yes, my Alpha. Harder... Mark me. Let them know I am yours.”

But it was not her voice that stirred him.

It was Lena’s.

Her anguish.

Her defiance.

The bitter melody of her breaking.

Each cry was a thread in the tapestry of his vengeance, each convulsion a victory carved in silence. His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction as he moved, not for pleasure, but for the pains he was causing her.

He would break her.

Again and again.

Until she was but ash and sorrow beneath his will.

Until the fire of her spirit was smothered in the shadow of his wrath.

Until pain was all that remained.