My mate's Omega pack liaison deliberately destroyed a ward-weave I had spent two full years creating.

In my fury, I made him serve as a den-servant for three days—scrubbing the floors of my exhibition hall before the Territory Showcase.

Aurora Frostvein said nothing at first. Acted as though nothing had happened.

But three months later, her pack declared a resource freeze. She was marked with an Outcast Brand and sent to the isolation dens.

To settle the crushing territory debts she left behind, I took on three labor-bonds each day, running myself ragged across pack lines.

For three whole years, rogue enforcers cornered me in shadowed alleyways and humiliated me—snapping at my heels, forcing me to bare my throat in submission.

For a hundred silver marks, I accepted a contract as a "cursed-ground watcher"—sleeping in abandoned dens where dark spirits were said to linger.

Then one night, while I was serving at a feast hall, I caught her scent—Aurora Frostvein, who was supposed to be wasting away in the isolation dens—hosting a lavish celebration for her Omega liaison.

A voice from her court-circle drifted toward me. "Aurora, you gifted Rowan Ashclaw a moon-blessed timepiece worth a thousand territory claims, while your bonded mate risks his life in cursed dens for a hundred marks. How can your heart be so cold?"

Aurora breathed out a slow exhale, smoke curling from the ceremonial herbs she held, and laughed—a sound like cracking ice.

"Who told Alaric Duskvale to force Rowan into servant's work? These three years are his punishment."

"Once the three years end, I'll stage my return to power."

"And he'll still be my devoted mate."

My body swayed in the cold night wind. I stood frozen like a broken puppet, strings cut and dangling.

So these three years of living torment—they were all part of your design. Your Pack Sanction against me.

Fine then. I will repay you double.

1.

My entire being felt submerged in ice water. Yet from inside the hall, I could still hear another voice—Selene Nightbriar, a high-ranking Beta's mate from Aurora's court-circle.

"Aurora, he is still your bonded mate. Before you claimed him, he was an Alpha-blooded heir of the Duskvale line. Do you not think you have been too cruel?"

"The last time I saw Alaric, he looked terrible. Gaunt. His scent was fading. Like he is barely holding on."

Aurora's voice remained flat.

"We agreed on exactly three years. Not one day less."

"Besides, there is only a moon-cycle left. He has survived this long. What is another few days?"

Selene hesitated, then spoke again.

"He came to me a while back. Begging. He only wanted to borrow a few hundred marks for healing herbs."

"The great Alaric Duskvale, heir to the Duskvale bloodline—I have never seen him so desperate."

Aurora made a sharp sound of contempt. "You did not lend it to him, did you?"

"Of course not. You declared that anyone who helped him would be dead to you. I would not dare."

Through the haze of herb-smoke, Aurora smiled coldly.

"Smart she-wolf."

"Alaric Duskvale was always arrogant and difficult. Rowan accidentally damaged one of his ward-weaves, and he made Rowan serve as a house-servant for three days."

"That kind of Alpha arrogance needed correction. And look—three years of punishment truly did the work."

Her voice dripped with pride. Satisfaction.

As if her sanction had reformed me. Made me a new wolf.

Selene sighed and swallowed whatever else she had meant to say.

There were things she kept hidden.

Like what happened that day.

I had knelt before her.

Bared my own throat. Pulled aside my collar to expose the vulnerable flesh.

"Just five hundred marks. Please."

"Aurora is sick in the isolation dens. She needs healer's fees. I am five hundred short."

The she-wolves exchanged glances—then burst into laughter.

"Is this really the great Alaric Duskvale?"

"You used to be so proud. Would not wear pelts that cost less than ten thousand marks. Now you are selling your dignity for five hundred?"

I could only kneel there, listening, my face blank as stone.

What expression was I supposed to wear?

Every shred of pride, every ounce of honor—ground into nothing by this brutal reality.

"If you are willing to offer more..."

My voice cracked.

"I will submit however you want."

The she-wolves laughed even harder, their mocking howls echoing off the stone walls of the gathering hall.

Finally, the one who had stayed quiet spoke up from her cushioned seat near the fire pit, her voice heavy with a tired sigh.

"Just go."

"Even if you dropped to the floor and pressed your throat to the ground a hundred times, we still wouldn't help you."

Because Aurora had given them clear orders beforehand.

Pack Sanction was Pack Sanction.

For three full years, they were forbidden from showing me any kindness or offering me the smallest bit of aid.

Only then could they properly avenge her pack liaison, Rowan.

So how did I eventually scrape together those five hundred silver marks?

I walked into the Den-Healers' Hall and sold my blood—let them drain me until my vision went dark at the edges.

When I finally brought the payment to the outcast holding grounds, I was told Aurora had already been released on a healer's mercy order.

That money passed through several hands before reaching one of Aurora's court-circle companions.

I was so desperate I nearly dropped to my knees and bared my throat in full submission.

"Please—make sure this gets to Aurora. She can't afford any more trouble with the Pack Elders."

But at that very moment, Aurora was with Rowan at the Moonlit Festival grounds, posing for portrait-weavers.

She took my five hundred silver marks and tossed them at a servant like crumpled scraps.

"Dirty coin from the gods know where. How disgusting."

Just like my devotion—trampled without a second thought.

And now, here was Aurora herself, displaying a moon-blessed ceremonial vessel worth more than most wolves earned in a lifetime as mere decoration for Rowan's birth-moon celebration.

Every detail had been carefully planned.

But I had no stomach to watch any more.

Several times I nearly lost control—nearly charged in there, my wolf clawing at the edges of my skin.

I wanted to appear before Aurora and rake my claws across her face, again and again.

I wanted to demand why she had deceived me for three years. Was it really just because I made Rowan serve as a house-wolf for three days?

I wanted to show her everything—every wound I'd suffered over those three years, every scar carved into my body.

Lay it all bare before her cold golden eyes.

But in the end, I did nothing.

I watched the woman who should have been confined to the outcast dens for three more days. She stood there in ceremonial furs worth a small territory's tribute, looking every inch the ruthless Alpha.

She had thrown this grand, wasteful birth-moon feast specifically for her pack liaison.

She had summoned her entire court-circle to celebrate, gazing at Rowan with open warmth as she wished him well on his naming day.

Then I turned away, my face showing nothing, and returned to the underground den I rented.

Dark. Damp. I had lived there for three years.

The washing corner was right by the entrance, its walls thick with moss that had built up over time, the smell of rot drifting through at random.

I still remembered my first days there—the constant sickness in my gut, the dry heaving.

For the first twenty-five years of my life, I had wanted for nothing. I was the firstborn heir of the noble Duskvale bloodline, raised in comfort, never having tasted hardship.

I was also a famed scent-weaver across many territories, my den walls lined with honor-marks and recognition tokens.

At the height of my standing, Aurora Frostvein—the Alpha heiress of the Frostvein Pack—had pursued me without rest until I agreed to accept her mating bond.

After the bonding ceremony, I had easily become what wolves called a "blessed wolf."

Until Aurora brought in a soft-spoken, harmless-seeming pack liaison named Rowan.

He was the son of my family's house-servant, yet he competed with me at every turn.

His furs weren't as fine as mine, so he mocked me as a useless pretty-blood.

His abilities couldn't match mine, so he whispered behind my back that I had only gotten where I was through birthright or my mate's influence.

Worse still, he had worked his way into becoming Aurora's trusted liaison—and never missed a chance to poison her thoughts against me.

He told her how I supposedly mistreated his mother in our den, ruined his belongings.

How I had made him kneel and serve as a house-wolf.

I had always believed the truth would speak for itself. I never bothered to defend myself.

Until the day I finally completed the ward-weave I had worked on for two full years.

I was about to have it sealed and blessed. I stepped out for just a moment.

When I returned, it was soaked in black ink—ruined beyond saving.

Rowan stood nearby, a vial of ward-bane clutched in his hand, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

"Two whole years you spent weaving that territorial seal. Let's see you show off in front of Aurora now that it's ruined."

My vision went red. My fist connected with his face before I even realized I'd swung.

"You're always spreading rumors that I make you work like a servant?" I grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, hauling him close enough to catch the bitter satisfaction in his scent. "Fine. For the next three days, you will serve me. You're going to clean every inch of this weaving chamber until it's spotless."

That's when the door burst open.

Aurora stormed in, her dominant Alpha presence flooding the room like a cold tide. She took one look at the scene and immediately pulled Rowan behind her like a shield.

"Alaric, can you please get your temper under control?" Her voice dripped with disapproval. "Rowan tries so hard. Yes, he comes from a difficult background—an Omega without pack protection—but why do you always have to target him?"

My chest heaved. "Aurora, you need to understand—he started this—"

Before I could finish, Rowan ducked further behind her, his face crumpling into a mask of wounded innocence. His scent shifted to something pitiful and trembling.

"Aurora, it's my fault. I was just trying to help Alaric organize the weaving chamber, and I accidentally knocked over the ward-bane onto his territorial seal." His voice cracked perfectly. "He said he'd sell me to a rogue pack's pleasure den. And then he—he called my mother a scent-marked whore. Said she gave birth to a little whore who would spread his legs for any Alpha."

Tears streamed down his cheeks. "I can take the hitting. I can take the yelling. But why did he have to drag my mother into this?"

He was good. I had to give him that. Every sob, every trembling word, every carefully crafted note of distress in his scent—flawless.

Aurora didn't ask me for my side. Didn't investigate. Didn't even hesitate.

She just looked at me with cold disappointment. "Alaric, what's happened to you? I don't even recognize you anymore."

I wanted to howl.

Even with Aurora defending him, I refused to back down. Rowan served those three days as promised.

When it was over, Aurora acted like nothing had happened. She just sighed—light, dismissive.

"Alaric, that temper of yours... when are you going to grow out of it? It was just a ward-weave." She waved her hand. "You've had your revenge. Let it go."

I was naive enough to believe it was over.

A few days later, word spread through the territories that the Frostvein Pack's resources had been frozen by decree of the Pack Council.

Aurora was placed under formal sanction shortly after, leaving me to deal with the wreckage.

At first, I wasn't worried. Even if the Frostvein Pack collapsed, I still had my parents—the Alpha and Luna of House Duskvale.

I sent courier stone messages immediately.

Both connections had been severed. No response. No scent-trace.

Panic clawed at my throat. I rushed to the Duskvale estate—only to have Garrick Ironhollow deliver the news in a hollow voice.

The day the Frostvein Pack's troubles became public, my parents had rushed back across the sea to help. Their traveling party hit a territory collapse on a mountain passage—a ward failure that triggered a landslide.

Neither survived.

My world collapsed overnight.

No parents. No mate to lean on. I sold everything I owned and moved into a damp cellar den, hiding from the rogue enforcers who'd somehow inherited my family's resource debts.

I couldn't sleep. Every creak, every shadow, every unfamiliar scent—I waited for them to find me.

They did.

A group of claw-marked rogues stormed into the cellar with wooden clubs. I curled into a ball, but it didn't matter.

Two ribs, broken. My wrist, shattered beyond what any healer could fully mend.

I would never weave another ward again. My scent-channels were damaged beyond repair.

It took three years for me to accept my fate.

I gave up everything—my art, my pride, my hope—just to survive.

And now I was being told it was all a lie.

Aurora's "Pack Sanction" had stripped me to the bone and rebuilt me into someone I didn't recognize.

A courier stone pulsed with warmth against my palm.

A scent-sealed note from Aurora.

"Alaric, my sanction ends in three days. Don't forget to escort me home."

My hand tightened around the stone until my knuckles went white. A dull ache spread through my chest where the mate bond should have hummed with warmth.

Even now, she was still playing her part.

She was already at the celebration gathering. I'd seen it with my own eyes—her arms around Rowan, the massive feast spread across the table, the beautiful decorations of moonflowers and silver ribbons, everyone celebrating her supposed release.

And she was still treating me like a fool.

I stared at those words until tears blurred my vision.

I blinked them away and read the message again.