Chapter 4. The Ceremony Breaks

The moment the words left his mouth—She’s already been claimed—the hall erupted.

Gasps tore through the crowd as a wine glass shattered against stone. Wolves turned sharply, bodies reacting on instinct, shoulders squaring, and jaws tightening as unease rippled outward in a living wave.

Selene couldn’t move, her body locked in place.

The weight of a hundred gazes struck her all at once, crushing and absolute. Her pulse roared in her ears, too fast to count, her breath coming shallow as though the air itself had thinned. Every nerve in her body lit at once, raw and blinding. It felt as if her blood had turned into something else entirely—not liquid, but wire threaded with fire, humming beneath her skin.

The mark at her collarbone burned through the fabric of her dress. Not faintly or subtly, but with sudden, undeniable force.

Silver spirals flared into full visibility, alive and unmistakable.

She didn’t try to hide it. She couldn’t.

Her father’s hand clamped around her wrist, hard enough to hurt, fingers digging in as though he meant to anchor her—or restrain her. She barely felt it. Her eyes were locked across the hall.

On him.

The Lycan King stood at the far edge of the ceremonial floor, bare-chested and unmoving, his silver gaze cutting through the chaos with merciless clarity. Moonlight caught along the markings carved across his skin—ritual scars and ancient symbols etched into muscle and bone. None of them softened him.

They made him look inevitable.

The Elders stood frozen. For the first time in living memory, not one of them spoke.

Selene forgot how to breathe.

Then another voice cut through the uproar, low and controlled, fury coiled tight beneath every word.

“That’s a lie.”

Lucan stepped forward from the Northwind ranks, his ceremonial coat flaring with the movement. His posture was rigid, chin lifted, eyes burning as they fixed on Alaric. He did not look at Selene.

“Lucan,” someone hissed urgently behind him.

He ignored it.

“There was no rite,” Lucan continued, his voice rising. “No Elder bore witness. No bond has been tested. By law, he has no claim.”

Alaric did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His reply rolled through the hall, calm and absolute, carrying the weight of thunder beneath the words.

“She bears my mark.”

Lucan’s mouth curled. “Marks can be forced.”

“This one was not.”

“You expect us to believe she welcomed it?”

Alaric’s gaze never left Selene. “She did not resist.”

Lucan laughed sharply. “Fear can paralyze.”

“So can recognition.”

Lucan’s jaw tightened. “She didn’t choose you.”

Alaric’s eyes flicked to him at last, silver and cold.

“She didn’t need to.”

Lucan’s restraint shattered. He surged forward in a blur of motion.

Gasps ripped through the crowd as wolves shifted instinctively—but the Elders moved first.

Three of them leapt, cloaks flying, bodies twisting mid-air as bones cracked and fur exploded across flesh. They collided with Lucan just short of the sacred circle, slamming him into the stone with brutal force. Claws scraped. Stone groaned. His snarl shook the hall.

Selene flinched.

Alaric did not move. He stood exactly where he was, unmoved and unimpressed, as immovable as the mountain itself.

“ENOUGH!”

The High Elder’s voice cracked the air, amplified by ancient magic. Power slammed outward in a visible shockwave, rippling through floor and walls alike. The hall fell instantly silent.

Lucan froze beneath the Elders’ grip, chest heaving, golden eyes locked on Alaric with something fierce and fractured.

The High Elder stepped forward, silver-threaded robes whispering across the stone.

“Selene of Whiteshade,” he intoned, his voice heavy with centuries of authority. “Come forward.”

Her body refused at first. Her feet stayed rooted, trembling.

Then something deeper pulled her ahead—not the bond, not entirely, but something older, instinct sharpened by fate.

She moved.

Alaric’s gaze never left her. There was no smile, no triumph, no threat in his expression.

Only certainty.

She stopped at the edge of the sacred circle as the High Elder approached slowly, lifting one hand toward her collarbone.

“Do I have your permission?” he asked.

She hesitated only a moment before nodding.

His fingers hovered just above her skin. Silver mist bloomed instantly, reacting to the magic beneath her flesh.

The Elder inhaled sharply. “It is real.”

Murmurs swept the hall.

“It is incomplete,” said another Elder, his voice dry and cutting as he stepped forward, sunken eyes narrowing. “There was no rite. No exchange of vows. This bond formed prematurely.”

“She was coerced,” Lucan growled from the floor.

“She was not,” Alaric said evenly. “And the bond does not lie.”

The Elders exchanged glances, silent calculations passing between them—concern carefully disguised as ritual deliberation.

Selene found her voice, thin but steady. “What happens now?”

The High Elder looked at her with something close to pity.

“If an incomplete bond continues unchecked,” he said, “it will grow unstable. Erratic. In time, it may consume you both—or kill you.”

A ripple of horror moved through the crowd.

Selene’s knees weakened. She caught herself, barely.

“Then seal it,” Alaric said.

“No,” Lucan snapped. “Challenge him.”

The hall inhaled as one.

Even Alaric blinked—once.

“You want to fight me,” he said quietly.

Lucan tore himself free of the Elders restraining him and staggered upright, blood on his lip, eyes blazing. “If she is to be claimed, I demand trial by combat. He has no pack. He’s exiled.”

Whispers surged.

Trial by combat—an ancient law. Rare. Binding.

The High Elder hesitated.

The hall waited.

Alaric turned to Selene, and everything else fell away.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly. “Do you want him to fight me?”

Her heart thundered as her thoughts tangled into noise.

Lucan stepped closer, his voice lowering. “You said you felt something between us. Bonds can be wrong. I was a coward before—but I never stopped wanting you.”

Her wolf was silent.

Then Alaric spoke.

“You are already mine.”

Her voice broke. “I don’t know what I want.”

“You don’t need to,” he said. “You only need to feel.”

The mark flared again—hotter, stronger—fire racing through her chest and down her spine.

She closed her eyes.

“I need time.”

“There is no time,” the High Elder said gently. “By law, you must choose before Moonfall.”

Panic surged.

Selene stepped back, breath shallow, the world tilting beneath her feet.

“No—I can’t—”

The floor vanished, and sound blurred together.

She never felt herself fall.

She only felt him catch her.

Arms strong and unyielding closed around her, holding her as though nothing—no law, no Elder, no rite—would take her from him. A low growl vibrated through his chest, protective and primal, and wolves nearby recoiled instinctively.

The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was Alaric’s voice—quiet, lethal, addressed to the world itself.

“Touch her again,” he said, “and I will tear out your spine.”

Then everything went black.