The corridors of the Silvercrest pack house were alive with movement.
Amara had just returned from her patrol along the eastern border, her boots still damp from the morning dew, when she heard it — the hurried shuffle of paws, the rustle of fabrics, the sound of anxious voices carrying through the hall.
She slowed her pace, brow furrowing. It was far too early for this kind of bustle. The air buzzed with nervous energy, something she hadn't felt since the Bloodmoon festival years ago.
Two omega wolves hurried past, arms full of linens and silverware polished to a mirror shine. Another carried flowers — wilted, hastily gathered from the forest edge.
Amara caught one by the arm. "What's going on?"
The young she-wolf flinched, eyes darting toward the others before whispering, "The elders commanded preparations, Captain. There's to be a ceremony."
Amara's eyes narrowed. "A ceremony? For what?"
The she-wolf hesitated, chewing her lip before answering. "A union, Captain. Between Kieran Vale and the prisoner… Elara Hale."
Amara froze.
For a heartbeat, all sound seemed to fade — the clatter of trays, the murmured orders, even the steady rhythm of her own breathing.
She stepped closer. "Who gave that command?"
"Elder Taren and Elder Miriam themselves," the omega replied, shrinking under Amara's piercing gaze. "They said the Alpha has agreed. It's to secure peace and—"
Amara released her arm sharply. "Peace?" she muttered, bitterness coiling beneath her breath. "This isn't peace. It's control."
She turned on her heel, her pulse quickening. The walls of the pack house seemed to close in around her, every shadow whispering of betrayal.
This wasn't what she'd fought for.
This wasn't what the Silvercrest name used to mean.
By the time she reached the council wing, her steps had quickened into near-silent strides. She didn't bother knocking when she entered Beta Garrick's office — the door slammed open, startling him from his desk.
"Amara?" Garrick's tone was low, but the warning in it didn't slow her.
"They're moving faster than we thought," she said, her voice sharp. "The elders have ordered the omegas to prepare a wedding. Kieran and Elara — tonight or tomorrow, I don't know. They mean to seal her fate before we can act."
Garrick's expression darkened. He rose slowly, the firelight catching the gray in his beard. "So they truly plan to bind her. To use her."
Amara nodded. "If that happens, Kael won't stop at the border. He'll burn Silvercrest to the ground."
Garrick began to pace, his mind already working. "We can't wait until nightfall, then. The moment she's wed, she's theirs to claim. You said you had a route through the southern tunnels?"
"Yes," Amara said. "But it won't stay hidden long. The guards rotate every two hours. If we're going to move, it has to be now."
He stopped and looked at her, the weight of the choice pressing between them. "You understand what this means. If we're caught, Roran won't just exile us — he'll make an example of us both."
Amara's voice didn't waver. "I've lived under his rule long enough to know that silence is a worse punishment."
For a moment, they held each other's gaze — soldier and commander, both chained by loyalty, both choosing which chain to break.
Garrick finally nodded. "Go. Get her out. I'll delay the guards and make it look like a shift change. Take her through the southern gate and head for the ravine trail. My son won't be a problem — I'll see to that."
Amara's chest tightened, but she didn't ask what that meant. There wasn't time.
She bowed her head once, sharply, then turned and sprinted down the corridor. Her boots echoed faintly against the stone floors, the scent of smoke and candlewax following her down into the cold.
The dungeon lay beneath the oldest part of the pack house — a place built when Silvercrest still believed in punishment over mercy. The air was damp, thick with mildew and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite washed away.
A pair of guards stood at the entrance. One nodded her through — she had authority as a captain, after all — but suspicion flickered in his eyes.
"Elder Taren said no visitors," he muttered.
Amara fixed him with a stare that could cut steel. "Elder Taren answers to the Alpha. I answer to the command of the Beta himself. Do you want to question whose orders hold more weight?"
The guard swallowed and stepped aside. "No, Captain."
"Good."
She descended into the cold.
The deeper she went, the more the air thickened — heavy with fear and something older, something wounded. She could smell it even before she reached the last cell.
Elara.
The girl sat slumped against the wall, her hair tangled and damp, her skin pale as moonlight. The tray beside her lay untouched, save for the faint scent of wolfsbane that clung to the bread.
Amara's heart lurched. "Elara?"
The girl stirred weakly, eyes fluttering open. "Amara…?"
Amara knelt beside her, her hands immediately going to Elara's pulse. It was slow, thready — too slow. Her wolf recoiled at the scent.
"Who gave you this?" she demanded, gesturing to the tray.
Elara's voice was barely a whisper. "The omega with the red scarf. She said… the elders wanted me strong for tomorrow."
Amara cursed under her breath. "Strong? They poisoned you."
Elara blinked, confusion clouding her expression. "Poisoned?"
Amara reached into her belt pouch, pulling out a vial of powdered charcoal and forcing it between Elara's lips. "Wolfsbane, just enough to weaken you — to make sure you can't fight, can't shift, can't run. But you're going to live, do you understand me?"
Elara's eyes fluttered, her breath shallow. "Why are you helping me?"
Amara's voice softened, though her hands trembled as she cradled the younger wolf's face. "Because I believe in the kind of pack we were meant to be. Not this."
The girl's gaze blurred. "They're… marrying me off, aren't they?"
Amara swallowed hard. "Not if I can help it."
With a grunt, she lifted Elara onto her shoulder, ignoring the sting of the wolfsbane-laced sweat against her skin. She staggered only once before steadying herself.
Bootsteps echoed faintly down the corridor above. Time was slipping through her fingers like water.
She whispered, more to herself than Elara, "Hold on, little wolf. Just a little longer."
The torches flickered violently as she passed, shadows leaping across the walls like restless spirits. The scent of wolfsbane lingered in the air — bitter, accusing, and cold.
Above, the omegas continued their frantic preparations, unaware that beneath their feet, the girl they were dressing a bridal hall for was being carried into the dark.
And somewhere outside the walls, the wind carried the faint, wild howl of the Blackridge wolves closing in.