Chapter 3

AARONNE 

Finally, the day I dread has come. The day that holds the first rite of my marriage–the betrothal ceremony.

A calling howl sounds in the distance. The guests are arriving.

I straighten my spine, tip my chin up and rise. I smoothen my gown while Anya lifts the cape behind me as I descend the stairs.

Father and Stepmother Lyra are standing, waiting on the red carpet while Lyra has a warm smile. 

Father extends his hand, and I go to him. I position myself in front of him and cross my hands, observing all my etiquette–grace and poise.

“Ronnie, darling,” Stepmother Lyra whispers, her manicured nails pressing lightly into my elbow. “You look as if you’ve swallowed a fly. Is your belly still troubled from last night’s stew?”

“Lyra, I—”

“This is not the time, you have to smile. Our guests will be watching.”

My stomach isn’t troubled by stew. It’s knotted because today, I will meet Ronan, my betrothed. I force a smile. From the corner of my eye, Anya gives a subtle nod of encouragement. I roll my eyes in reply.

The great doors swing open. Pack members line both sides of the hall. My palms are damp, my face feels hot.

A trumpet blares outside. They are here!!

“MEMBERS OF BLUE NIGHT PACK, WELCOME ALPHA BORIN AND RONAN, OF SILVER CLAW PACK!”

Silence falls.

Three figures approach. The two in front are large, broad-shouldered men, radiating power even from across the room. The man on the left must be Alpha Borin—the potbelly gives him away. He’s older than Father, his hair more grey than brown, his face all hard lines. A cloak of grey wolf pelts hangs from his shoulders, the dead heads staring blankly.

His eyebrows look like he is always angry and his lips pout in seriousness. 

My gaze shifts to the young man a step behind him. A sharper, younger version of Borin, with hair the color of dark honey and eyes of clear, cold blue.

That is Ronan.

The sharp-mouthed troublemaker from my childhood is gone. This man is tall, powerfully built and undeniably handsome. His eyes find me immediately. I shiver. Lyra’s hand subtly steadies my waist.

Ronan’s gaze is grasping. He looks at me hungrily, his eyes are full of lust. He seems to be checking me out from head to toe. I don't like that. 

The procession halts. Alpha Borin places a fist over his heart and offers a slight bow. “Alpha Kieran. Your halls are still as beautiful as ever.”

My father returns the gesture. “Alpha Borin. May this day strengthen both our packs for generations.”

Alpha Borin’s eyes turn to me. “And this must be the famed Aaronne. Your beauty does not disappoint.” He glances at Lyra, whose smile tightens. “Even prettier than her mother. Luna Priscilla was a sight to behold.”

Stepmother Lyra's smile disappears. She hates hearing about my mother.

I simply blink.

Ronan steps forward. He doesn’t bow. “Alpha Kieran. An honor.” His eyes lock back onto me. “Lady Aaronne.”

Such arrogance.

Stepmother Lyra’s nudge reminds me to move. I dip into a low curtsey. “Alpha Borin, Lord Ronan, welcome.”

The formalities continue in the pack's official meeting hall. Father and Alpha Borin continue to speak of their childhood, making jokes, jabbing each other. Then they progress to politics. 

Lyra is all charm, smiling from ear to ear.

Ronan nods in the right places, but his attention never truly leaves me. It’s unnerving. I feel like I'm being scrutinized.

‘Think of the good parts,’ I tell myself. 

‘Ronan is strong and confident. The alliance will secure our pack and help with the fall in food supply.’

Another thought crashes through. ‘But he will never be your mate.’

I feel no connection to him. The idea of his touch makes my skin crawl. A life beside him feels like a lifetime imprisonment. I must endure.

“We have kept her safe and untouched for this day.” Father says, laughing, the topic switches to me and both Alphas turn to stare. 

Alpha Borin nods, continuing his inspection. “She is exquisite and strong. Has she seen her wolf yet?”

“Not yet,” My father answers with a disappointed face. “But she will, soon, without doubt. She is her mother’s daughter.”

“Her hair is luscious and her skin is sturdy. I trust she will bear strong Alpha pups.”

Father snorts. “Many have asked for Aaronne’s hand, many princes and alphas across the world. I kept her for you, old friend. If I had doubts about her wolf, I would have married her off to the alpha from the west.”

Across the table, their hands clasp. “She will enrich my son,” Borin says. “I am sure of it.”

I can’t breathe. I stand abruptly, feeling overwhelmed. They speak about me like I am property. “Please excuse me.”

I don’t wait for permission. I just leave.

The corridor to the library is empty and everyone is busy with the feast. 

I am secretly happy but still, my heart hammers as I push the door open and slip inside, closing it behind me.

No one has been here since my mother died. She loved to read, so she kept the library sane. 

Sunlight doesn't come in. The library is as dark and cold as death! I am afraid but I must fuel my curiosity. 

My fingers trail over books as I use my eyes to search. 

“History of the Great Wars. Wolf-Clan Genealogies.” Useless!!

In a corner, I find a smaller shelf with older, cracked bindings. One title stands out: Creatures of Myth and Scarcity.

I pull it free, coughing at the plume of dust, and sink to the floor in a pool of blue velvet. I open it.

Swan Mythology.

It is exactly what I am looking for. 

My finger traces an elegant illustration. I begin to read, whispering the words.

“Symbols of grace and fierce loyalty… They mate for life, mourning if their partner dies. Their feathers are also used in healing and protection. Connected to water magic, the half moon’s pull.”

The half moon? No wonder I transformed the other night. But I still don't understand. To the best of my knowledge. My father is a werewolf and my mother was one.

If it isn't hereditary? Could something have triggered it? 

I lean closer, the old text blurring in places.

“Some believed they carried souls to the afterlife. They build hidden nests, safe from predators. They are very secretive and live in a tribe.”

A new heading makes my pulse jump. The Legend of the Swan-Maidens.

“Women who could shed feathered cloaks and become human.”

Cloaks?!!! I have one!! I had not asked Anya about it since that night. Could she have disposed of it?! 

I think of the pull to the lake—the voice that kept calling me that evening.

“The Great Migration– a home they must return to, a calling they cannot ignore. They are strong flyers, protective parents. They hate dirt and corruption.” 

I begin to get frustrated. I am not finding what I'm looking for. I had a terrible nightmare last night. I saw a lot of swans falling into a red lake. I am worried so I keep searching. 

Then finally, “Swans find their mate the evening they get a mate scent and a mate call-–the mate call pulls them to meet and acknowledge each other.

Interesting!!”

I stop, my throat is becoming dry. These are facts that feel so true. I wonder what my father will think if I open up about this to him.

I scramble up, replacing the myth book, searching for something historical. My hands find a heavy volume: Pre-Territory Chronicles.

I flip through pages of dense script. It speaks of a time where many shifters lived together in harmony.

Finally, I find it.

“The Swan Clan, noted for their affinity for lakes and northern marshes are neutral. Their decline began with the Great Territorial Wars. The Wolf-Clan, seeking their strategic nesting lands, engaged in a series of conflicts. The swans were not war-makers. Their numbers dwindled. The last known gathering was at Lake Seraphine. After the massacre at the Lake of Tears, they were declared extinct.”

Hmm….The Massacre at the Lake of Tears…..

It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a revelation. I am a swan and I need to find my people. I need to find my mate.

But the book says they may be extinct!!

“Extinct,” I say aloud, the word bitter on my tongue. “But they’re not. I’m not.”

“No,” a deep voice says from the doorway. “You are not.”

Whose there?! I jerk upright, the book falling from my hands and thudding to the floor.