Chapter 3 – A Treaty Written in Blood
The Great Hall of the Black Moon fortress was a cavernous space meant to intimidate. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows on walls hung with faded battle standards and the skulls of great predators. At the far end, on a dais of black stone, stood the Alpha's chair—a massive, unadorned throne carved from a single piece of obsidian. It was empty.
Aren stood just inside the towering double doors, flanked by two of his uncle's most stoic warriors. Their scents, familiar pine and frost, were a thin comfort against the overwhelming alien musk of the Black Moon Pack. The air was thick with it: aggressive alpha dominance, beta sharpness, and a pervasive, cold stone dampness. Hundreds of eyes were on him. He felt them like physical touches—hostile, curious, disdainful. He kept his gaze fixed on the stone flags beneath his feet, focusing on the intricate, swirling patterns of gray and white. *Don't tremble. Don't scent of fear.* He repeated it like a mantra, but his heart was a frantic bird against his ribs.
He was dressed in simple, travel-worn clothes from his old pack, a deliberate choice. He had nothing of value to bring, no fine garments to offer. He was the offering himself.
A ripple of movement passed through the crowd, a wave of subtle tension. Aren's head lifted instinctively.
He entered from a side archway, not the main doors. Kael, Alpha of the Black Moon, needed no grand entrance. His presence simply *was*, and the hall fell into a silence so profound Aren could hear the crackle of the torches. The Alpha moved with a lethal, efficient grace, a predator completely at ease in his territory. He did not look at Aren as he ascended the dais and took his seat. His pale gray eyes swept over his own pack, a silent command that had every wolf bowing their head a fraction.
Only then did his gaze land on Aren. It was like being doused in ice water. There was no warmth, no curiosity, only a flat, assessing scrutiny, as if evaluating a piece of livestock acquired in a trade. Aren forced himself to meet that gaze, his own omega instincts screaming to submit, to bare his throat and avert his eyes. He swallowed hard and held still. He would not cower at the first glance.
A tall, severe-looking woman—Lyra, the Beta, Aren guessed—stepped forward. In her hands, she carried a long, rolled parchment and a ceremonial dagger with a hilt of dark bone.
"The representatives of the Silver Fang Pack stand before the Black Moon," her voice echoed in the hall. "They bring the terms of the Treaty of the Blood Moon, and the omega, Aren, son of Elara, to seal its bond."
One of Aren's escorts, an elder warrior named Goran, stepped forward, his back stiff. "Alpha Kael. Alpha Torin sends his greetings and his… offering. The terms are as agreed. Cessation of all hostilities along the shared border. Free passage for traders on the northern road. Mutual defense against the mountain rogues. And the bonding of Aren to your pack, as a symbol of unity."
Kael didn't speak. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Lyra.
She unrolled the parchment. The treaty was written in a dark, rust-colored ink. Aren's stomach lurched. It wasn't ink. It was blood. Wolf's blood, mixed with iron salts to make it permanent. A treaty written in blood, to be sealed with a life.
"The terms are clear," Lyra said, her voice devoid of inflection. "The omega, Aren, will be accepted into the Black Moon Pack. He will be afforded all protections due to a pack member. In return, the Silver Fang will withdraw all patrols to the line of the Ash River. The bonding ceremony will be formalized today. The physical claiming…" She paused, and her eyes flicked to Kael for instruction.
"The claiming," Kael spoke for the first time. His voice was lower than Aren had imagined, a deep rumble that vibrated in the stone floor. "Will be deferred. The treaty is sealed by the oath and the bond of law. The bite is a formality for another time."
A murmur, quickly stifled, ran through the Black Moon wolves. Deferring a claiming was unheard of. It was a public rejection, a statement that the bond was purely political. Aren felt a hot flush of shame crawl up his neck. He had been prepared for many things—fear, pain, even violence. He hadn't been prepared for this cold, procedural dismissal. He was a signature on a document, not a mate.
Goran looked uneasy. "Alpha Torin expected the bond to be… fully realized. To ensure its permanence."
Kael's gaze sharpened, the ice in his eyes turning to frost. "The permanence is ensured by my word. Does Torin question it? Or does he question my control?" The threat was soft, but absolute.
Goran paled and bowed his head. "No, Alpha. Of course not."
"Then proceed."
Lyra laid the parchment on a small stone table brought to the center of the dais. She handed the bone dagger to Kael. He stood, and the air grew heavier. He walked down the steps until he was standing before the table. He looked at Goran. "Your blood seals your pack's oath."
Goran stepped forward, took the dagger, and without hesitation drew the blade across his own palm. He clenched his fist, letting thick drops of blood fall onto a specific line at the bottom of the parchment. The scent of Silver Fang blood, rich and coppery, filled the space between them.
Lyra took the dagger, cleaned it on a black cloth, and handed it to Kael.
Kael took it. He didn't look at Aren. He drew the blade across his own palm with a swift, practiced motion. His blood was darker, its scent more intense—wilderness, granite, and immense, restrained power. His drops fell beside Goran's, the two bloods not mingling, but lying side-by-side on the page.
"The oath is given in blood," Lyra intoned. "The peace is sworn. The omega is transferred."
It was done. In a few moments, with a slice of a blade, Aren's old life was officially severed. He was no longer of the Silver Fang. He was a commodity that had changed hands.
Kael finally turned his full attention to Aren. He closed the distance between them, stopping an arm's length away. Up close, he was even more imposing. Aren could see the fine scars that marked his skin, the relentless intensity in his winter-gray eyes. He smelled of cold air, iron, and something deeply, fundamentally wild.
"Aren," Kael said, his voice meant for him alone, though the entire hall listened. "You are now under the protection of the Black Moon. You will obey our laws. You will contribute to the pack. You will not betray us." Each statement was a command, a stone laid to build his cage. "In return, you have my word. No harm will come to you from any in this territory, by my order or by my own hand. The treaty binds us. Remember that."
It was not a welcome. It was a terms of occupancy. Aren's throat was too tight to speak. He gave a single, sharp nod.
Kael's eyes held his for a moment longer, and Aren saw something flicker there—not kindness, but a faint, almost puzzled recognition, as if Kael saw something in him he hadn't expected. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar impenetrable ice.
"Lyra," Kael said, turning away. "Show him to his quarters. The treaty is sealed."
He walked back to his obsidian throne, dismissing Aren from his world as easily as he had entered it. The hall began to buzz with conversation as the formalities ended. Aren stood, adrift, as his Silver Fang escorts gave him one last, unreadable look and turned to leave. They walked out of the great doors, and with them went the last tangible thread to his past.
Lyra appeared at his side. "This way, omega."
As Aren followed her through a labyrinth of dark corridors, the weight of the blood-oath settled into his bones. He was bound now, not by love or choice, but by a treaty written in blood. His new life was a contract. And his Alpha, his mate in name only, was a man who ruled from a throne of stone and saw him as a line on a parchment.
The war was over. But Aren had never felt more like a prisoner of war.