The whispers had coiled around me, chilling me to the bone: "He demands… a bride."
A bride. For Ares. The Lycan King.
My breath hitched, ragged and thin in my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic hummingbird trapped in a cage, desperate to escape. My gaze darted around the cold, damp common tent, desperate, pleading for someone, anyone, to offer a different truth. The flickering light from the central fire danced across the gaunt faces of my pack, illuminating the raw fear etched into every line, every shadow. The air tasted of dust and despair, thick and suffocating, clinging to the rough fabric of my meager clothes.
Our Alpha, his face grim, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight of impossible decisions, cleared his throat again. The sound was a dull thud against the suffocating silence, a finality that brooked no argument. He had just finished explaining the horrifying terms of the King's "ultimatum." Cease the brutal attacks that had dwindled our numbers and ravaged our lands. Allow our fragile existence to finally breathe. In exchange... a bride. A life. My life.
His eyes, weary and bloodshot from sleepless nights and impossible choices, swept across the faces of the unmarried she-wolves. A flicker of something, guilt perhaps, or just profound sadness, crossed his features as his gaze landed on me. He held it for only a fraction of a second, a silent apology that felt colder than any condemnation.
"Caelan," he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of any warmth, any emotion. "The pack has decided. You will be the bride."
The words hit me like a physical blow, sharper than any fist. Caelan. You. My world tilted, spinning violently, the very ground beneath me feeling suddenly unsteady, dissolving into a cold, black void. My ears roared, a deafening sound that drowned out any murmurs that might have followed his announcement. All I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own blood.
No. My mind screamed the word, a primal, guttural protest, but no sound escaped my lips. My throat felt constricted, squeezed by an invisible hand. I wanted to disappear. To melt into the shadows, to become utterly invisible, just as I often felt I already was. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be my fate.
My gaze, wide and brimming with a desperate, unspoken plea, searched for my father. He sat huddled in the corner, his shoulders shaking slightly, his head bowed. He didn't meet my eyes. Not for a moment. His hands were clasped so tightly they looked white. My mother, usually so fiercely protective, her eyes blazing at the smallest slight against her children, merely clutched his arm, her own face a mask of silent, numb despair. Her usual defiant scent of wild herbs and determination was replaced by the bitter, acrid tang of overwhelming fear. No one spoke. No one offered a word of comfort. No one protested. Not a single voice rose to question the unthinkable.
The silence was deafening, a crushing weight that stole the air from my lungs. It was a silence of grim acceptance. A silence that confirmed every deep-seated fear I'd ever harbored: I was dispensable. A commodity. A bargaining chip. A life that could be traded for a collective breath.
Why me? Why always me? The question, raw and agonizing, echoed in the empty chambers of my heart, resonating with a lifetime of feeling overlooked. All my life, I'd been the quiet one, the one who tried hardest to please, to contribute, to be useful, but was never quite enough. My efforts to find food, to mend torn cloaks, to simply exist had always been met with polite indifference, sometimes even a weary sigh. I was the omega who could be spared. The one whose absence wouldn't shatter the already fragile fabric of our pack. Perhaps, I thought bitterly, they hoped my sacrifice would somehow make me worth something at last.
My worthlessness, a belief I'd fought against for so long, was brutally confirmed. They were selling me. Bartering my life, my very soul, for a chance at their survival. My body trembled, not just from the biting cold, but from the searing heat of humiliation and utter despair. How could they? How could my own family let this happen? My mind raced, frantically searching for an escape, a loophole, a way to deny this terrifying, irreversible fate. But there was none. Only the resigned faces of my pack, their eyes hollow, silently begging me to understand. Begging me to accept.
The meeting dissolved into hushed whispers, the air thick with the collective sigh of relief that it wasn't them. Relief, purchased with my life. I stumbled back to my cramped, cold den, the heavy cloak of silence following me, pressing in from all sides. The scent of stale earth and lingering fear clung to me, a suffocating shroud. My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled with my meager belongings. A threadbare tunic. A cracked, wooden comb. A single, small, smooth river stone.
I clutched the stone. It was cool against my palm, a tiny piece of solace in a world gone mad. I'd found it years ago, by a forgotten stream, on one of my rare, stolen moments of peace. It had felt like a secret, a symbol of freedom from a dream I'd barely dared to whisper to myself—a dream of belonging, of being truly seen, truly cherished, for myself. Not for what I could provide. Not for what I could be sacrificed for. The rough texture of the cold ground beneath my feet, the dampness of the air, the distant, mournful cry of an owl – these sensory anchors barely registered against the emotional storm raging inside me.
As my fingers traced the smooth curve of the stone, a strange heat prickled my skin, a familiar, unsettling surge that traveled up my arm, buzzing beneath my flesh. I usually dismissed it as nerves, a restless energy I'd always had, a nervous tremor deep in my bones. But now, it felt different. More potent. Like something awakening, stirring deep within me, even as my spirit felt crushed. It was a raw, wild energy that seemed to fight against the crushing weight of my despair, a faint echo of defiance, a nascent flicker of power that felt both terrifying and undeniably mine.
I closed my eyes, pressing the cool stone against my forehead, trying to blot out the unbearable reality. My journey to Ares, the terrifying Lycan King, began tomorrow. To a life I didn't choose, with a mate I didn't want, in a world I didn't understand. A trade. A sacrifice. And as the last sliver of twilight vanished beyond the horizon, plunging my den into absolute darkness, I felt a chilling certainty deep in my bones: Looking back, I should have known the whispers of destiny, laced with terror and an unsettling, pure draw, had been following me my whole life.