The torches blazed like angry stars against the frozen night, their flames casting writhing shadows across the ancient stone pillars of Frostveil Citadel. The entire Glaciara pack had assembled once more, but this gathering bore none of the ceremony of the previous night. This was judgment. This was punishment.
Reign Winterhart stood in the center of the circle, wrists bound in blessed iron that burned against her skin. The metal had been forged in the sacred fires and blessed by the Moon Goddess herself—designed to suppress a wolf's connection to their spirit, to make them vulnerable, powerless. Every breath sent fresh waves of agony up her arms.
The ceremonial cloak of silver thread—the mark of one destined to be an Alpha's mate—had already been torn from her shoulders. Elder Morgrim held the precious garment aloft before casting it into the snow like refuse, grinding it beneath his heel until the sacred symbols were lost in the mud and slush.
"Let all wolves witness," his ancient voice cracked across the assembly, "what becomes of those who reject the natural order."
The Council's sigil-bearer stepped forward, a wolf named Thorne whose hands glowed with the faint red light of fire magic. Few wolves possessed such gifts—most relied on tooth and claw, strength and speed. But the ability to channel elemental forces marked one as blessed by the Goddess, chosen for sacred duties.
Sacred duties like this.
Reign's breath caught as she understood what was coming. The bloodmark wasn't just a symbol—it was the physical manifestation of her connection to the wolf spirit within, to her ancestors, to her very identity as one of the pack. To burn it away...
"No," she whispered, pulling against the iron bonds that held her wrist.
The crowd pressed closer, hungry for the spectacle. She could smell their excitement, their bloodlust, their need to see the one who had disrupted their perfect order brought low. Near the edge of the circle, Lyra Shadowmere watched with glittering eyes, already savoring what was to come.
"The bloodmark," Elder Morgrim intoned, "is the sacred bond between wolf and Goddess. To bear it falsely, to claim kinship with those you have betrayed—this is the deepest blasphemy."
Thorne's hands grew brighter, flames dancing between his fingers. The heat washed over Reign's face, and she could smell the acrid smoke that would soon carry the scent of her own burning flesh.
"Please," she said, hating herself for the word even as it left her lips. "I am still Glaciara. Still wolf."
"No longer." Kieran's voice cut through the crackling flames. The Alpha stepped into the circle, his golden eyes reflecting the firelight like molten metal. "You chose to reject your bonds. Now face the consequences."
Thorne seized her wrist with one burning hand while the other pressed down over her bloodmark. The silver crescent that had marked her as different, as special, as connected to something ancient and powerful—it blazed one final time beneath his palm.
Then agony.
Fire raced through her veins like liquid metal. The sacred mark that had pulsed with her heartbeat since birth writhed and twisted, fighting against the burning magic that sought to tear it from her very soul. She bit down on her tongue until she tasted copper, determined not to give them the satisfaction of her screams.
The scent of scorched flesh filled the air. Her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed. The pain went deeper than skin, deeper than bone—it felt like losing a piece of her soul.
When Thorne finally lifted his hand, only a blackened scar remained where her bloodmark had been. The silver crescent was gone forever, taking with it her connection to the pack mind, to the ancestral memories, to everything that made her truly wolf.
A collective murmur rippled through the crowd. Unmarked. Stripped. Nothing.
"It is done," Elder Morgrim announced with grim satisfaction. "She who was Reign Winterhart is no more. What stands before us is nameless, packless—less than omega, less than nothing."
Kieran stepped closer, his massive frame blocking out the torchlight. When he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his voice carried the finality of a death sentence.
"The wild will finish what I started, girl. And when the cold claims your bones, when the scavengers pick your carcass clean, remember—you chose this fate when you rejected me."
He straightened and addressed the pack with the voice of absolute authority. "Guards! Remove this... thing... from our lands. Cast it beyond the gates and let the frozen wastes have their due."
Rough hands seized her arms. The guards—wolves she had known since childhood—dragged her across the stone courtyard without meeting her eyes. The iron bonds fell away, leaving her wrists raw and bloody, but the damage was already done. Without her bloodmark, she could barely sense her wolf spirit, could barely feel the connection that should have given her strength.
The pack jeered as she passed. Some spat in her direction, others snarled and snapped at the air. Above it all, Lyra's laughter rang out like silver bells—sweet, musical, and utterly triumphant.
"Enjoy the cold, little omega," the she-wolf called out. "I'll take good care of your Alpha while you're gone. Forever."
The massive gates of Frostveil Citadel loomed ahead—ancient oak reinforced with iron and blessed silver, carved with protective runes that had guarded the pack for centuries. Beyond them lay the frozen wastes: endless snow, howling winds, and creatures that would tear apart a lone wolf without hesitation.
The guards hurled her through the gateway with enough force to send her sprawling face-first into the snow. The iron bonds that had suppressed her wolf spirit shattered against the stones, but the relief was minimal. The burning scar where her bloodmark had been throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of what she had lost.
Behind her, the gates slammed shut with the finality of a tomb sealing.
The night swallowed her whole.
Snow stung her face like tiny knives, and the wind cut through her simple tunic as if it were made of paper. The temperature was dropping fast—without shelter, without supplies, she would be dead before dawn.
Alone. Stripped of her title, her pack, her very identity. The unmarked scar burned like a brand, marking her as an exile, a reject, something less than nothing.
But as she struggled to her feet in the deepening snow, something unexpected stirred in her chest. Not despair—fury. Cold, clean, and sharp as winter itself.