Pain is the first anchor. A sharp, rhythmic throbbing in my cheek that pulls me from a black, suffocating sea of nothingness. For a blissful, idiotic moment, I think it was all a nightmare. A horrible, twisted dream brought on by nerves. The ceremony... Damien... it couldn't have been real.
Then I breathe, and the second anchor finds me. The air is wrong. It isn't the clean, herbal scent of the healer's den, thick with the aroma of mending poultices. This is the smell of dust, of mildew, of things left to rot.
My eyes flutter open. I'm staring at a low, grimy ceiling of rough-hewn timber. I turn my head, and a fresh wave of agony lances through my face, making me gasp. I'm on a cot, not a bed. The blanket is a thin, scratchy thing, smelling of damp wool. The room is a small, windowless space cluttered with splintered crates and dusty barrels. A storage room. The place where they keep dried meats, excess grain, and broken tools. The place where they keep things they have no more use for.
My heart seizes in my chest. No.
I sit up too quickly, the room spinning around me. The memory of the Great Hall crashes back in—the golden bond, his icy eyes, the rejection. And the claws. My fingers tremble as I raise them to my cheek. The skin is puffy and hot, and I can feel the jagged, crusted edges of the deep gashes he left. A wound like this, on an Alpha's orders… it's a statement. It's a brand.
A sliver of hope, a desperate, foolish thing, whispers in the back of my mind. It's a mistake. An Alpha in a rage… once he calms down, he will see. He will feel the bond. He will call for me.
The door creaks open, and I hold my breath. Is it him?
A woman in the grey robes of a pack healer steps inside, her arms full of clean linens. She doesn't look at me, her entire focus on a stack of shelves in the corner.
"Please," I whisper, my voice a dry, cracked thing. "My face… it hurts."
She flinches, as if startled to hear me speak. She turns slowly, her eyes landing on me. There is no pity in them. No professional concern. Only a wary distance, as if I were a diseased animal.
"The Alpha marked you," she says, her voice flat and clinical. "A marked thing is not for us to mend."
She turns her back on me, gathers what she came for, and leaves, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. The finality of her words is like a second blow. The pack's healers, women sworn to ease suffering, have been forbidden from treating me. The message is clear: my pain is not to be eased. It is to be endured. It is part of the sentence.
The next few hours pass in a blur of throbbing misery. Another Omega, one I vaguely recognize from the kitchens, brings me a wooden bowl of thin, lukewarm broth and a cup of water, placing it on the floor before scurrying away without a word, refusing to meet my eyes. She is afraid. Afraid of what? That my worthlessness is contagious?
Later, the door opens again. This time, it's my older sister, Jessa. She stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, her beautiful face pinched with irritation. For a wild moment, I think she's here to offer comfort, to sneak me a healing balm, to be my sister.
"Look at you," she says, her voice dripping with disgust. "Do you have any idea the shame you've brought on this family?"
The words are so cold, so foreign, they don't immediately register. "Jessa…?"
"Don't you 'Jessa' me," she snaps. "Alpha Kael of the Silver Crest pack was looking at me. At me. We were close to making a formal introduction. Then you had to pull your little scene. And our Alpha… he had to reject his fated mate. A wolfless omega. Everyone is talking. They're saying there must be a weakness in our bloodline."
Her eyes, the same shade of blue as our mother's, are hard as stone. There is no trace of familial love, only scathing, terrified anger. My existence, my public humiliation, has threatened her social standing. That is all she can see.
"He hurt me," I choke out, gesturing to my wounded face.
"You deserved it," she spits back, her words laced with venom. "You should have known your place. You should have stayed in the back. Praying for a mate? An omega like you? You're lucky you were allowed in the hall at all." She looks me up and down one last time. "You have ruined everything."
She leaves, slamming the door. The sound echoes in the small space, a final nail in the coffin of my past life. My family has not just abandoned me; they blame me. They despise me for the crime of being his fated.
I sit there, numb. The pain in my cheek is a dull, constant throb, but the hollowness in my chest is a vast, echoing cavern. I've lost my mate. I've lost my pack. I've lost my family. What is left of me?
The answer comes just as the sun begins to set, the fading light barely filtering through the cracks in the door. The door opens for a third time.
Beta Marcus stands there, his presence filling the cramped doorway. He is an old wolf, his face a roadmap of scars and grim duty. He was my father's friend, once. Now, he looks at me as if I am a stranger, an administrative problem to be solved.
"Elara," he says, and the use of my name feels like an obscenity. "By the decree of Alpha Damien Blackwood, your bond to this pack has been severed."
I stare at him, uncomprehending. Severed?
"You are marked," he continues, his voice a relentless monotone, as if reading from a scroll. "You are wolfless. You carry no value for the Blackwood Pack. As of this moment, you are an exile."
Exile. The word hangs in the air, heavy and poisonous. Exile is a death sentence. No pack means no protection, no food, no shelter. It means being hunted by rogues, by wild beasts, by the unforgiving wilderness itself.
"The Alpha is… merciful," he says, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. "You will be given provisions to survive the day." He motions to the guard beside him, who shoves a small, rough bundle into the room. It lands on the dusty floor with a soft thud. "You are to leave the territory now. If you are seen within our borders after sundown, you will be hunted down and killed as a trespasser."
My mind finally catches up. This is it. The finality. There is no appeal. No hope for a reprieve. My life, as I knew it, is over.
Something cold and hard begins to form in the hollow space in my chest. It is not hope. It is not despair. It is a tiny, glowing ember of pure, undiluted rage.
"Get up," the Beta commands.
My legs, stiff and sore, obey. Two guards step into the room, their faces impassive. They grab my arms, their grips bruising, and haul me out of the storage room and into the cold evening air. As they march me through the pack grounds, wolves turn their heads. They see my face, see the brand of the Alpha's rejection, and they immediately look away. Mothers pull their children closer. Warriors turn their backs. I am a ghost, a walking pariah. My isolation is absolute.
They march me all the way to the northern border, the path growing wilder, the trees thicker. The scent of civilization fades, replaced by the damp, earthy smell of the untamed forest. Finally, we reach one of the ancient stone markers, its carved runes glowing with a faint, warning light in the twilight. This is the edge of my world.
One of the guards shoves the bundle into my hands—a threadbare cloak and a small, hard loaf of stale bread.
"Go," he grunts.
I stand there for a second, frozen, looking at the invisible line that separates everything I have ever known from the vast, terrifying unknown.
The guard behind me makes an impatient noise. "I said, go." He places a heavy hand in the center of my back and shoves. Hard.
I stumble forward, my worn shoes catching on a root. I fall, landing hard on my hands and knees, the rough earth scraping my palms. I have fallen out of the Blackwood Pack and onto the unclaimed soil of the wild.
I push myself up slowly, my entire body trembling. The guards are already turning back, their duty done. The heavy wooden gate they came through begins to swing shut, the sound a deep, final groan of splintering wood and dying hope. I watch until the last sliver of my home disappears from view.
I stand at the edge of the dark, menacing forest, the territory markers glowing faintly behind me. I look back one last time at the home that cast me out, then turn to face the impenetrable darkness ahead, a single tear freezing on my scarred cheek.