Chapter 4 – Chosen Without Choice
The night before his departure was a waking ghost. Aren moved through the familiar spaces of his family's cabin—the main room with its hearth now cold, the small shelf holding his mother's herb jars, the worn rug by the door—as if he were already a specter haunting his own life. Every scent, every texture, was a memory he was being forced to catalog and then abandon.
He had no possessions to pack. Alpha Torin's decree had been explicit: *You will take nothing that ties you to this pack.* It was a brutal but symbolic severance. He was to arrive at the Black Moon as a blank slate, bearing only the clothes on his back and the scent of his birth pack, which would soon fade.
His mother, Elara, was a silent storm of grief. She moved around the small kitchen, her hands busy with pointless tasks—wiping an already-clean counter, rearranging jars—as if keeping her body in motion could outrun the reality settling over them. The air was thick with the scent of her sorrow, a bitter-herbal tang that made Aren's own eyes burn.
"You should eat something," she said, her voice frayed at the edges. She placed a bowl of stew in front of him at the rough-hewn table. It was his favorite, made with venison and forest roots. The smell, usually so comforting, now turned his stomach.
"I'm not hungry, Ma."
"You need your strength," she insisted, the words cracking. She sat across from him, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. In the flickering light of the single oil lamp, she looked ancient, the lines of worry on her face carved deep by the night's events. "Aren… my boy. There has to be another way. I could speak to the council, I could—"
"They've made their choice, Ma." Aren's voice was quiet, hollow. "Torin looked at me and saw a weakness to be traded away. The council agreed. Arguing now would only make it worse. It would make *you* a target."
"Let them target me!" she hissed, a flash of her old fire breaking through the despair. "You are my son. My only child. To give you to those… those savages…" A sob choked her words. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Aren reached across the table, his fingers closing over hers. They were cold. "I'll be okay," he whispered, the lie tasting like ash. "It's a treaty. They have to honor it. I'll be safe."
She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and fierce. "Safe? In the den of the Black Moon Alpha? Kael is a monster, Aren. The stories… what he did at the Battle of the Crags…" She shuddered. "He doesn't take mates. He takes trophies. And you…" Her gaze swept over him, taking in his slender frame, his gentle eyes. "You are not a warrior. You are my gentle healer. How will you survive in a place like that?"
Her fear mirrored his own, but voicing it only made the terror more solid, more real. Aren withdrew his hand. "I'll survive because I have to. Because if I don't, this… this sacrifice is for nothing." He pushed the word 'sacrifice' out, forcing himself to own it. "I'll learn their ways. I'll be quiet. I'll be useful. Maybe… maybe it won't be so bad."
He didn't believe it. Neither did she. But the pretense was a fragile raft in the storm, and they both clung to it.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold night air. Aren's uncle, Alpha Torin, stood in the doorway, his large frame blocking the starlight. The scent of alpha authority and cold decision filled the small room, smothering the intimate grief.
"Elara," Torin nodded, his voice gruff. "Aren. It's time."
"It's the middle of the night," Elara said, rising to her feet, a protective anger squaring her shoulders.
"The journey begins at first light. He needs to be at the border meeting point before dawn. The Black Moon scouts won't wait." Torin's gaze was on Aren, avoiding his sister's furious eyes. "Come. Your escort is ready."
This was it. The final moment. Aren stood, his legs unsteady. He walked to his mother and wrapped his arms around her. She clung to him, her face buried in his shoulder, her body trembling. He inhaled the scent of her—dried lavender, woodsmoke, and the unique, comforting sweetness that was simply *mother*. He committed it to memory, a treasure he would hoard in the dark days to come.
"Be strong, my heart," she whispered, her voice muffled against his tunic. "Be clever. And remember, no matter where you are, you are loved. You are *wanted* here."
The words were a dagger and a balm. He was loved, yet he was being sent away. He was wanted, yet he was unwanted.
He pulled back, kissed her forehead, and turned before he could break down. He couldn't let Torin see him cry. He couldn't give him that satisfaction.
He followed his uncle out of the cabin without looking back. The pack compound was silent, shrouded in pre-dawn gloom. A few shadows moved at the edges of the clearing—warriors on watch, or perhaps others unable to sleep, witnessing the exile. No one came to say goodbye.
Two warriors waited by the tree line, Goran and a younger wolf named Rhen. They nodded at him, their expressions grimly professional. Torin stopped and turned to face him.
"You understand the weight of this, Aren," Torin said, not unkindly, but with the tone of a general briefing a soldier on a suicide mission. "You are the key to peace. Your compliance, your… existence among them, is what holds the treaty together. Do not shame us. Do not give them a reason to break faith."
*Do not shame us.* The implication was clear: any failure would be his alone. Any suffering, deserved.
"I understand, Alpha," Aren said, his voice flat. He felt a strange detachment settling over him, a numbness that was the only defense against the raw pain.
Torin hesitated, and for a second, Aren saw a flicker of something in his uncle's eyes—not regret, perhaps, but a dim recognition of the cost. He placed a heavy hand on Aren's shoulder. "You are doing your duty for your pack. That is an honor. Remember that."
An honor. To be chosen without choice. To be given away like a bushel of wheat to settle a debt. Aren said nothing. He merely inclined his head.
Torin dropped his hand. "Go. May the moon guide your path." It was a traditional blessing, but it felt like a curse.
Goran gestured, and Aren fell into step between the two warriors as they moved into the dense forest. The familiar trees, the soft moss underfoot, the chorus of night insects—it was all a beloved world he was walking out of. With every step east, toward the jagged mountains that housed the Black Moon, the bond to his home pack stretched thinner, a psychic tether he felt fraying with each breath.
He did not look back. He couldn't. If he saw the faint glow of his mother's lamp in the cabin window, or the outline of the lodge against the sky, he would crumble. So he kept his eyes forward, on the dark path ahead.
Rhen, the younger warrior, glanced at him. "You alright, Aren?" he muttered, his voice low.
Aren just shook his head. There was no answer to that question.
They walked in silence for hours. The forest began to change. The pines grew taller, closer together, their branches blocking out more of the sky. The air grew cooler, sharper. The scent of the Silver Fang territory was fading, replaced by a wilder, untamed aroma. They were approaching the no-man's-land, the scarred territory between packs.
Just as the first true hints of dawn lightened the eastern sky from black to deep indigo, they reached a clearing by a fast, rocky stream—the agreed-upon meeting point. On the other side of the water, the land rose sharply into forbidding foothills.
And there, waiting under the skeletal branches of a dead oak, were three figures.
They were silhouettes against the graying sky, but their posture screamed alertness, power, and cold efficiency. They wore dark, practical leathers, and even from this distance, Aren could feel the weight of their stares. The scent that carried across the water was unmistakable: granite, frost, and a sharp, metallic dominance. Black Moon.
Goran halted. "That's far enough for us." He turned to Aren. His face was hard, but his eyes held a faint, reluctant respect. "Good luck, omega. You'll need it."
It was the closest thing to kindness he'd received from his pack since the decision was made. Aren gave a tight nod. He stepped past the two warriors, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure the wolves across the stream could hear it.
He forded the shallow, icy stream alone, the water soaking his boots and leaching the last warmth from his body. As he reached the other side, the lead Black Moon scout, a woman with a severe face and eyes that missed nothing, stepped forward.
"Aren of the Silver Fang?" Her voice was clipped.
"Yes."
"I am Lyra, Beta of the Black Moon. Follow. Do not stray. Do not speak unless spoken to." Her gaze swept over him once, a quick, dismissive assessment. "The Alpha awaits."
She turned and started up the steep path without another word. The other two scouts fell in behind Aren, their presence at his back a silent, imposing guard.
As he climbed, leaving the stream and the last vestige of his old life behind, Aren felt the finality of it all crash down. He had been chosen without his consent, traded like a commodity, and was now being escorted into the heart of enemy territory by silent, hostile guards.
But as he placed one foot in front of the other, the numbness began to recede, burned away by a spark that was neither hope nor despair. It was a cold, clear resolve. He was here. The choice had been made for him. But from this moment on, every step he took, every breath he drew in this harsh new world, would be his own. He was an omega, yes. Unwanted and unheard. But he was not broken. Not yet.
The rising sun caught the peaks of the Black Moon mountains ahead, painting them in fiery gold. It was a beautiful, terrifying sight. His new world. His new cage. His unchosen future stretched before him, a path written in shadows and stone. He took a deep breath of the thin, cold air, and followed Lyra into the dawn.