Claimed in the Ashes

POV BRIAR

That word was not spoken, it was torn from the very depths of a beast that had walked in shadows for centuries. It was no human sound, nor even the growl of an ordinary wolf, it was the voice of ancient authority itself, resonating in every bone within me like a decree carved in stone since the beginning of time.

"MINE."

The soaked earth beneath my car tires shook in perfect time with that roar. The shockwave did not just rattle the rain-fogged glass, it struck me full in the chest, shattering the shell of ice I had built to shield myself barely an hour before, when I fled the manor leaving my veil and the betrayal behind. That armor I had forged to keep from falling apart broke all at once, and in its place something stirred I had thought lost forever.

The wolf inside me, that part of myself everyone — including me — had given up for dead, broken, unable to raise its voice, twisted in my ribs with frantic urgency. It was not trembling with fear. It was not shrinking into the dark. It stood tall, hackles raised, chest heaving, howling toward the moon hidden behind storm clouds, demanding I snap every chain, cross the space between us, go to him.

The Lycan King dismounted his black warhorse with terrifying grace for his colossal size. He stood over two meters of packed, raw power, every muscle defined beneath dark steel plates and thick furs heavy with rain and the blood of enemies. Each step he took in the mud was slow, heavy, deliberate, the stride of one who knows no one dares step in his path.

Around him, dozens of giant warriors drew breath as one. They lowered their grip on axe and hilt, bowing their heads almost unconsciously. Not a soul moved. None dared step between their sovereign and the female his own beast had just claimed before the entire army. It was sacred, unnegotiable, older than any written law.

Malakar stopped a hand’s breadth from my car door.

His golden eyes, burning bright as coals suddenly fanned by wind, did not blink as they traced every inch of me through misted glass. Warm breath clouded the window where his gaze rested. Without hesitation, gloved fingers curled around the doorframe, metal groaning under impossible force before giving way completely, and the door swung open, wrenched from its hinges with a sharp, final crack.

Night’s cold wind stung my face, yet I felt no chill. The heat rolling off him was intense, enveloping, like standing beside a volcano that sleeps but never dies. His scent flooded me instantly, cedar smoke, pure snow, and the electric charge of ozone from a distant storm. It filled my lungs and swept away without a trace the sickly stench of cloying orchids and another’s sweat I had thought burned into my skin since stepping through that forbidden bedroom door.

"Step out," he said.

His voice was low, deep, raised not a fraction, yet heavy with such ancient command my muscles obeyed on pure instinct before my mind could decide. I set my boot in soft mud and stepped free of the wreck, rain plastering simple clothes to my skin, yet I never broke eye contact.

Beside him I felt small. The crown of my head barely reached the middle of his armored chest. He was overwhelming, immense, yet I felt no urge to curl inward, the way I always had with Garrick. For the first time in my life I felt safe, standing beside something that did not need to shout to prove its strength.

Malakar slowly leaned down toward me. Slitted pupils swept every detail, my ragged breathing, the forgotten suitcase on the back seat, and finally the raw crimson mark still burning on my left cheek — the imprint of my mother’s hand, the last thing I felt before running from my own home.

The air around us seemed to drop ten degrees in a heartbeat.

His jaw tightened so violently cords stood out along his neck. Fangs grazed his lower lip, golden eyes narrowing to pinpricks of black flame.

"Who touched what belongs to me?" he rumbled, the vibration deep in his chest making dry branches crack beneath our feet.

Before I could form words, a furious, ragged howl tore through mist behind us.

"Briar! Stay away from that beast!"

I knew the voice instantly. That imperious tone, that hollow arrogance, which only hours ago had made me bow my head without question.

Garrick burst into the clearing, followed by twenty elite Silvercrest guards. His combat jacket hung half-open over bare skin, breath coming fast, green eyes wide with rage. Further back, half-hidden in thick brush, I saw my mother and Daphne huddled in fine coats, faces pale with terror, watching, helpless.

Garrick halted short at the sight of the Black Fangs standards planted in earth and the sheer breadth of the enemy host. For a heartbeat he wavered, recognizing the Imperial vanguard, doubt flickering in his stance. But wounded pride drowned out survival instinct.

"King Malakar!" he shouted, puffing out his chest to project an Alpha presence he did not truly possess. "You have crossed Silvercrest borders without declaration of war. And more than that — this woman is my betrothed. Bound to me by blood pact sworn before the Elders. Surrender her peacefully, or every inch of this land will cost you blood!"

A hush fell over the clearing, broken only by rain drumming on leaves.

Then Malakar laughed.

It was short, dark, chilling, the laugh of an executioner watching an insect threaten a mountain. He did not fully turn, only angled his head enough to glance at Garrick with utter, withering contempt.

"Your betrothed?" he repeated, slow and calm. "I smell another female on you from here, pup. You carry her taste, her mark, scored into your skin — and you dare speak to me of sacred pacts?"

Garrick’s fists clenched until knuckles blanched. Wolf claws tore through tactical gloves, fangs bursting forth.

"That is pack business!" he roared, taking three desperate strides forward. "Briar belongs to Silvercrest! She is mine property! Come back now, or I swear by the Goddess I will strip your name and hang you from the walls as a traitor!"

From the rear, Daphne’s shrill voice rose, sharp with envy and fear:

"Garrick! Tell the guards to strike her down! Look at her — giving herself to the enemy! She is disloyal trash!"

Malakar stepped sideways, placing himself fully between Garrick and me. His broad back became an impenetrable wall, blotting out the pack that had cast me aside.

Slowly, hand moving to the harness at his spine, he drew a bastard sword of black steel forged in the deeps of Drakor. The hum of metal leaving its sheath turned the blood of Silvercrest’s twenty guards cold, every one stepping back on survival instinct.

"Your father failed to pay the blood tribute agreed at the last solstice," Malakar declared, his voice carrying the weight of an emperor who needs no persuasion. "I did not come to negotiate with pups lost in their own games. I have come to claim what is legally owed the Empire."

He lowered the blade tip to touch mud and looked at me sidelong. In golden fire lay a silent promise — you choose whether they burn or endure.

I stepped half-forward, placing myself at his side. My shoulder brushed his armor, drawing strength from his searing warmth, and I met Garrick’s gaze unflinching.

He stared, mouth half-open, disbelieving. He expected me to run to him, begging, weeping, to kneel. Instead I stood tall beside his enemy.

"An hour ago you told me I was nothing without you," I said, voice clear and steady, cutting through wind and rain. "You said no other would ever want me, that I should be grateful to be granted scraps of status. That I was nothing but an ornament."

Daphne gaped, clutching our mother’s arm, who swayed as if fainting — the daughter she had struck down standing beside the most feared predator on the continent.

"I give you my unfaithful betrothed," I told her, cold as a grave farewell. "Keep him, Daphne. Keep his soiled bed, his lies, and his debts to the North. I want nothing left behind. I choose my own fate. And he —" I lifted my chin toward Malakar "— is my King."

Malakar let out a guttural growl of approval that rippled through the air. Fluidly he sheathed the blade, swept one massive arm around my waist, and lifted me from the ground as easily as lifting a feather.

"If ever you look in her direction again," he warned Garrick, voice rising as if from the earth’s core, "I will tear your heart out with my own hands — and feed it to your own pack."

With one motion he settled me onto the back of his great warhorse and mounted behind me in a heartbeat. Arms enclosed me, taking reins firm, his armored chest shielding me from biting wind, wrapping me safe and whole.

"To Drakor!" he commanded.

The Northern host crashed spear against shield in a deafening roar that sent birds tearing from the trees. As the stallion surged forward up the pass, I looked back one last time.

Garrick had fallen to his knees in thick, churning mud, rain soaking him through, screaming my name in rage and ruin as mist and steel closed around him. He was left behind — alone, amid the wreckage of everything he thought he owned.