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

The valley air hummed with expectancy—the charged kind that leaves a taste of copper in the mouth. Trees bent once more in the wind, as if bearing witness, leaning toward our fragile stand.

I squeezed Kael's hand. His warmth was a tether, steadying me even as my own magic rattled like a caged wolf, longing to run.

The Shadowborn commander remained silent, their banners lined like dark teeth along the ridge. I saw in her eyes the remnants of doubt—questioning whether power resided in bone, blood, or belief.

"Speak," she said finally. Quiet. Calculated. A queen seeking terms with a force she couldn't yet grasp.

I drew breath, slow and full, tasting smoke and moonfire and his scent—the scent of storms held at bay. This was more than confrontation. It was a declaration.

"We will share the valley," I said, voice low and certain. "Not knuckles to ground, not fearful of fealty. We build with our feet, not bend with our knees."

62: EMBERS & OATHS