Goldentreee

“He rejected me in front of the entire pack… because she stole my scent.”

Nobody wants a rejected Omega.

Ayla Riverwinddoesn’t care anymore. She's done waiting for fate. As Northmoon Pack’s healer, she’s content in the shadows—until the day her world burns.

Her best friend, ‘Cassia’, uses forbidden scentbinding magic to steal Ayla’s identity and claim her mate—high-ranking Alpha ‘Darius’—as her own. Publicly rejected, shackled in silver, and tortured with wolfsbane, Ayla is cast into a dungeon and marked feral. The rejection was meant to break her.

Instead, it awakens something ancient inside her. When she escapes into the Outlands, Ayla meets ‘Rylan Stormblade’—a rogue healer with secrets carved into his skin and knowledge of a lost ritual that may restore her scent... or kill her.

But Ayla’s scent is no longer just hers. It burns through the bond realm, ripping through the senses of one wolf in particular—’Kael Valerius’, the Alpha King. His wolf goes feral when her scent touches the wind, but he already has a Luna.

Now hunted by Alphas who want her dead, claimed by a King she doesn’t trust, and stalked by a prophecy that says “the next Luna will break the throne or bless it”, Ayla must rise—not as someone’s mate…but as the Luna they tried to erase.

Rejected By The Alpha, Desired By The King

No horns. No banners. Just boots on thread-laced ground, the hum of bonded breath, and Ayla walking with the kind of stillness that made the forest bow as she passed.

She hadn't spoken much since the Hollow.

Whatever had happened behind that memory-devouring door hadn't broken her.

It had gathered her and I could feel the difference.

She walked like someone who knew what she'd lost, what she'd become, and what she was willing to burn for both.

We passed the edge of the old Vale within a day.

Ruins scattered the cliffside—fallen statues of the first Alphas, headless, moss-grown. The wind carried the scent of old oaths and dried thread. The trees whispered things we didn't speak aloud: how many had knelt here, how many had bled, how many still remembered being called Luna without ever understanding the price.

No one dared ask if we were going the right way.

35: THE COURT OF FIRST THREADS