Ember's neck burned beneath the coarse leather collar that every found mate now wore—a blatant reminder that she had no control here. They were lined up in rigid rows, the air thick with fear, uncertainty, and something worse… hope.
She turned slightly, catching the faint tremble in one girl's shoulders—panic, pure and uncontrollable. Another muttered prayers, lips quivering, eyes shut tight. But then—Ember's gaze locked onto a few who smiled.
They stood with confidence, anticipation gleaming in their eyes, as if this was exactly what they wanted.
Her heart hammered in disbelief.
There were found mates who dreamed of this.
Of being claimed. Of belonging to a wolf, bound for eternity.
She stared, breath caught in her throat, watching their excitement grow, their hands tightening around their bindings as if restraint was nothing more than ceremony.
For a moment, she felt more alone than ever.
She wasn't one of them. She would never be one of them.
And yet, no matter what she wanted, the choice was never hers to make.
The Cruelty of Her Own Kind
Then came the laughter.
Low at first, slithering between whispers, but growing, pressing against Ember like the tightening grip of an unseen hand.
She refused to look, refused to acknowledge it. But she knew who it was.
The three girls who had mocked her since the beginning, who had sneered when she tried to escape, their amusement evident even now. They were among those who smiled.
They had always resented her—the way her body had refused to shrink into frailty despite rations that left most too thin to stand. Her curves, once admired by human boys, had been the source of envy and jealousy among other girls.
Even in the face of forced servitude, they still found reason to mock her.
Her fists clenched, her nails biting into the flesh of her palm.
It would never matter what she did.
She could have escaped—fled far beyond the reach of this nightmare—but they would have whispered about her failure anyway.
And now they stood here, content, waiting to be chosen, smiling as if this was some grand honor.
Ember's stomach twisted.
How could they want this? How could they embrace it so easily?
The Moment of Stillness
The shift came like the severing of breath. A sudden, sharp change in atmosphere, striking like a blade through the heavy silence.
Gasps echoed.
Some froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
The werewolves, once distant silhouettes in the candlelight, stepped forward—each motion deliberate, each gaze sharp. They walked up and down the rows, measuring, sensing, deciding.
Ember swallowed, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears.
She had never felt less in control of her own fate.
The Choosing Begins
The arena was divided by more than walls—by fate itself.
Werewolves stood in eager anticipation, eyes locked onto the mates who would soon be bound to them forever.
The humans—terrified, resigned, shaking—clung to whatever control remained in their grasp, though none had ever truly held it to begin with.
Then, the voice echoed from above.
"You may select."
A ripple of movement tore through the space.
Girls screamed, their voices shrill with fear as werewolves surged forward, lifting them into their arms, carrying them toward the waiting platform. Boys cried out, fists swinging, some trying to fight back—but resistance meant nothing against the brute strength of a wolf.
Each selection, swift. Each step toward binding, final.
Ember's stomach twisted as the curtain rose, revealing the other half of the arena—hundreds of wolves seated or standing, watching, ready to witness the pairings with reverence, approval, and expectation.
This was a spectacle, a tradition soaked in obedience and bloodline hierarchy.
And then, the smoke shifted. A figure emerged.
The Warlock's Arrival
He was ancient, his presence commanding despite the slow, deliberate steps he took forward. A parchment rested in his right hand, while his left held something strange—a hooked branch of wisteria, alive with deep violet clusters of flowers, dripping as though still freshly plucked.
"Welcome," his voice carried through the chamber, rich with ritual. "I am Warlock Zepfen."
Thunderous applause erupted from the werewolves, but among the humans, silence reigned.
"As the Lycan Emperor's most trusted friend, I will be heading up the ceremony as I do every year."
Ember listened, rooted in place, fists clenched, pulse hammering against her ribs—fear threatening to take hold.
And without further delay, Warlock Zepfen called forth the first pair.
"Come, young wolf, and bring your potential mate."
A broad-shouldered wolf with thick brown hair stepped onto the platform, carrying a petite blonde girl over his shoulder, as easily as if she were weightless. He stood before Zepfen, his expression unreadable.
"Please state your name, rank, and pack.Then pick the new name of your mate."
"I am Drake Fuller, Beta of the White Waning Crescent Moon Pack," he announced firmly. "And this is my mate—Bloom."
Warlock Zepfen lifted the wisteria branch, its flowers glistening as magic stirred in the air.
"Verum Sit, Notum Sit."
The Awakening of a Mate
A shimmering orange thread curled around Drake and Bloom, spiraling like living fire.
Ember felt a strange pull—an addictive hum, like the scent of warm chocolate, thick in the air. The magic seemed to breathe, coaxing the room into an unnatural stillness.
Then came the words.
"You may mark your mate."
Drake tilted Bloom's head, exposing her bare neck. His movements were steady, controlled—deliberate.
Without hesitation, his teeth sank into her flesh.
Screams ripped through the line of humans, horror echoing against the high stone walls.
The werewolves?
They howled. Some grinned, some cheered, some cried out in joy, while others watched in solemn reverence.
Then—the worst part.
A sickening, grotesque snap rang out.
Bone twisting, reforming. Skin shifting, hair lengthening. Bloom's body convulsed, unnatural forces reshaping her limbs.
Ember's stomach turned.
The trembling form of a small brown wolf wavered before the crowd, its dazed eyes barely processing what had happened before its legs buckled beneath its weight.
It collapsed.
Every single wolf collapsed.
As the ritual repeated, the colors of the mate threads flickered in the air—yellow, orange, red, green—each binding the pair in pulsating waves. Every human twisted into gray, brown, or rust-colored wolves, each one falling into the aftermath of their transformation.
Some humans resisted, writhing in agony for longer before they finally succumbed. Their screams stretched past the limits of endurance, their pain gut-wrenching as the force of the magic forced submission.
And Ember?
Her breaths shallowed, her vision blurred, the weight of the ceremony pressing down like a vice around her lungs.
Pair after pair, tested by the wisteria branch.
Each time, the room gasped, cheered, screamed.
Each time, another human collapsed, writhing, breaking, bones snapping under the force of their transformation.
She watched as even the boys were marked, lifted by their mates, necks tilted like offerings, teeth sinking in without hesitation.
Their bodies cracked, twisted, until wolves stood in their place—weak, trembling, altered forever.
By the eighth or ninth marking, something inside Ember fractured.
The world tilted.
Her lungs refused to expand.
Nausea twisted in her stomach.
And then—blackness...