One

The sacred courtyard of Aeloria was cloaked in gold and shadow, the marble floor etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly under the full moon. Silken banners fluttered above in the evening breeze—silver for the royals, black for the mourning of the war just passed, and crimson for bloodlines bound tonight.

A lonely figure stood still at the heart of it all, barely breathing.

She had been made to wear white, the color of sacrifice, and in the middle of this solemn gathering that is exactly what she looked like

The mating dress clung to her like mist, delicate chiffon sleeves whispering against pale unmarked skin, yet there was no softness in the moment. Not when so many hostile face stood around, waiting. Watching. Judging.

Ten paces from her, head raised high stood a man, his chiseled profile illuminated by the moonlight.

King Roan Vanar.

His golden ceremonial armor gleamed, unmarred by dust or blood. His crown sat perfectly on his head, carved from obsidian and moonstone. He looked every bit the king the realm needed—commanding, beautiful, and powerful.

"Bring forth the Moonbond," the High Seer intoned, her voice echoing across the courtyard like a bell tolling for the dead.

A low murmur rose through the assembled packs—Eastern, Southern, Western, Northern. Nobles and warriors, elders and orphans. Eyes flicked between Arin and Roan. a few with pity. Most just waited for the spectacle to unfold.

No one dared speak of it, but everyone knew: the king loved another.

Nova.

The golden girl of the Eastern Pack, the one with laughter like spring and a wolf of silver flame. Also ironically the stepsister of the bride.

Thanks to some ancient text in scroll written by some seer who was long dead and Arin's father's influence Nova had been cast aside for Arin.

A pawn moved into place by scheming, prophecy, and desperation.

Arin's stomach churned as Roan stepped toward her with calculated grace. Every movement was perfection, and yet she could feel the chill in it. Not indifference.

This was rejection.

He stopped in front of her, and she shakily raised her eyes to meet his.

His gaze, once warm with rare kindness when she was little and used to come with her father to the palace, was like cold steel now. He did not smile. He did not offer his hand to her.

The High Seer handed him the ceremonial dagger, its handle carved from the tusk of a Moonbeast.

"Speak your vow," she said.

Roan's voice was low but clear. "I, Roan of House Vanar, son of Vexen, King of Aeloria, take Arin of the North Pack as my mate under the light of the moon, for the unity of the realm and the strength of our blood."

He sliced the blade across his palm and held it out. Blood dripped onto the runes.

No affection. No softness.

Not even his bride's name on his tongue with reverence befitting his queen.

Arin's breath caught in her throat at the subtle insult.

"I, Arin of the North, daughter of Alpha Kael, accept Roan as my mate, under the light of the moon," she whispered, "for the realm, and its peace."

She cut my palm, and their blood mingled.

The runes beneath them pulsed once—recognition. The bond was sealed. The prophecy fulfilled.

They were mated.

And yet.

"The bond is forged," the High Seer declared. "It may now be sealed with a kiss."

The words echoed across the courtyard. A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Arin turned to Roan, her heart stuttering. This was the part she feared most—not because she longed for his kiss, but because she already knew he would deny her.

Still, she faced him.

He looked at her for a long moment—too long. She even started to wonder if he would bestow the kiss on her.

Then, in front of every elder, every warrior, every whispering mouth—

He stepped back.

"I have done my duty," he said, voice like glass. "The kiss is not required."

Gasps fluttered like wings.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Arin felt something cold and vicious rise in her chest.

This was not just rejection. It was humiliation. A message to the realm that she was not wanted. Not as queen, not as mate, not even as a woman.

Arin stood frozen, her hand still unhealed thanks to the lack of a wolf and fast healing, blood dripping onto white silk. Red bloomed across her palm like a rose, vivid and damning.

Somewhere in the crowd, a laugh was quickly stifled. Arin didn't look to find the source, she knew the only person who would be audacious enough to laugh at her humiliation.

But she did however, meet her father's gaze.

Alpha Oswald stood tall among the Northern warriors, jaw clenched, eyes burning with quiet fury.

She breathed in shakily.

Once.

Twice.

Swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

Her father was ashamed of her. Arin reasoned that he probably wished Nova was his daughter, she made him proud very easily.

Arin straightened her back, summoning all the strength inside her.

If they thought she would break here, in front of them all, then they were sadly mistaken. They had forgotten the girl raised in Northern snows, the girl who survived without a wolf in a world that saw her as less than nothing.

"The bond is acknowledged," the High Seer announced, her voice now brittle with tension. "All shall recognize Queen Arin of the Unified Realm."

The crowd murmured their assent. Some bowed. Others barely inclined their heads.

Nova did neither.

She stood to the side, adorned in midnight-blue court dress, a jeweled circlet crowning her pale hair. Her eyes met Arin's without flinching, her smile sharp and sure as a dagger.

Pity? No. There was none in her expression.

Just triumph, King Roan had just showed her that Arin was insignificant, not a threat to her.

As if she'd won something by watching her sister fall.

Arin felt blood roar in her ears.

She walked down the ceremonial steps alone. Her hand throbbed, still bleeding.

No healer approached her.

No king to lead her down.

The cold wind whipped her veil away. And she let it go.

The whispers followed her like wolves.

"Did you see—"

"He didn't even—"

"She's wolfless. What did she expect?"

"Poor thing. Or foolish."

All to her hearing, after all she was nothing but a figurehead, a broodmare.

Arin didn't flinch. She raised her chin high and continued to walk.