The hall smelled of tension.
Polished oak beams arched overhead, lanterns swaying faintly with the breath of wind that slipped through narrow windows. Beneath them, two rival packs faced one another across a long stone table. Warriors from the Shadowfangs lined one side, silver eyes gleaming like blades in the torchlight. The Silverclaws filled the other, their presence lighter, sharper, their pale fur cloaks draped like banners of snow.
At the center of it all, Lyra Veyra sat stiff-backed, her chin lifted. She was the only Omega in the chamber, and she knew every gaze measured her, judged her. She refused to lower her eyes, even when the Shadowfang heir fixed his on her like a predator watching prey.
Kael Draven.
Broad-shouldered, arms crossed over a chest that spoke of years of battle training, his aura pressed like storm winds against everyone present. Even the Silverclaw Alphas shifted uneasily under his dominance. His gaze lingered on Lyra a fraction longer than courtesy demanded, sharp and unyielding, as though daring her to flinch.
She did not.
"Peace talks," Lyra murmured under her breath, her lips barely moving. "Yet it feels more like a battlefield."
Her brother, seated beside her, laid a steadying hand on her wrist. "Hold your tongue, Lyra."
But Lyra had never been good at silence.
The Silverclaw Alpha, Elder Myrren, raised his voice, deep and commanding. "Our packs have lost too much to war. This council is meant to forge a truce, not reopen old wounds."
The Shadowfang Alpha, Kael's father, leaned forward, his expression carved from stone. "A truce demands loyalty. Words will not heal blood feuds."
"And loyalty," Myrren countered, "must be built on trust."
The exchange went back and forth, the kind of ritualistic posturing that leaders used when neither wished to yield ground. Lyra's patience thinned. She knew too well what these discussions meant: weeks of bartering, shifting promises, while villages lay vulnerable on the borders.
And then Kael spoke.
"Trust cannot be given to those who cower behind Omegas," he said, voice smooth as steel. "If Silverclaw wishes peace, perhaps you should stop sending your weakest to sit at a warrior's table."
The insult rang sharp in the chamber. Several Shadowfang warriors smirked. Silverclaws bristled.
Lyra rose slowly, palms pressed against the table's cool stone. "Perhaps," she said, her tone deceptively calm, "Shadowfang would learn that strength is not measured only in teeth and claws. Some of us know how to use our minds."
A flicker of surprise crossed Kael's face—quick, gone in an instant—but she had seen it. His smirk returned, colder. "An Omega who thinks herself clever. How… novel."
"Better novel than predictable," Lyra shot back. "If all Shadowfang heirs think with their fists, it's no wonder peace never lasts."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Lyra's heart thudded, but she did not let her voice waver. Kael's eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he might lunge across the table. His wolf's presence pressed hard against hers, testing, suffocating.
Lyra's wolf rose to meet it—not with dominance, but with defiance. A spark of something electric danced in the air between them, sharp enough to raise the hairs on her arms.
And then—
The doors slammed open.
A robed figure swept into the hall, white hair spilling down her back, her eyes clouded with the silver sheen of prophecy. The packs fell silent. The seer of the Moon Temple moved with eerie grace, stopping at the head of the table.
Her voice carried like wind through hollow stone. "The Moon speaks. She has shown me a vision. Blood will spill, war will rise, unless the bond is sealed."
Murmurs rippled across both packs. The seer lifted her hand and pointed—first at Lyra, then at Kael.
"Bound by fate. Alpha and Omega. Shadowfang and Silverclaw. The Moon decrees you are true mates."
The world tilted.
Lyra's breath caught in her throat. "What?"
Kael's chair scraped back, his body radiating fury. "Impossible. I will not—"
But the seer's eyes blazed silver, silencing him. "The bond cannot be denied. Refuse, and the packs will drown in their own blood. Accept, and peace will follow."
Gasps echoed. Some Silverclaws looked at Lyra with awe, others with pity. Across the table, Shadowfang warriors murmured like a rising storm.
Lyra's pulse pounded in her ears. The weight of Kael's glare burned into her skin. Mate. The word tasted like ashes. She would not be chained, not to him, not to anyone.
Kael's voice was a low growl, trembling with restrained rage. "I would sooner bleed every rogue myself than be shackled to an Omega who cannot hold her tongue."
Lyra straightened, her chin high, though her chest ached with a pressure she didn't understand. "Good. Because I would sooner run with rogues than belong to an Alpha with more pride than sense."
The seer's eyes closed, her voice softer now. "You may fight it. You may deny it. But the Moon does not lie. Your bond has already begun."
And just like that, Lyra felt it. A faint tug in her chest, a thread pulling taut, binding her to the man she hated most. She saw it flicker in his eyes too—the way his nostrils flared, the way his hand clenched into a fist.
The chamber was no longer just heavy with tension. It was suffocating with destiny.