The bugle's sharp blast tore Ember from sleep, her body jolting upright before her mind fully grasped where she was.
Then—the nasally voice rang through the stone halls.
"Congratulations, you few unmarked, as of yet. it is my pleasure to tell you that on this day you will start the selection process for any unmated hierarchy, including the sons and daughters of all werewolf lords and ladies. This will be the next fifteen days."
And just like that—the man turned on his heel and left, as if he had announced nothing more than the changing of the weather.
A hush settled over the remaining humans.
And just like that—the man turned on his heel and left, as if he had announced nothing more than the changing of the weather.
A hush settled over the remaining humans.
Then the wolves came.
They moved with practiced efficiency, splitting the humans apart—boys dragged one way, girls another. Ember felt herself pushed, maneuvered, her limbs sluggish from sleep but her mind racing to catch up.
Then came the command.
Strip.
Ember's stomach plummeted.
The weight of those words settled like lead inside her ribs, pressing against the remnants of dignity she had fought so hard to keep.
Some hesitated. Some obeyed, their faces eerily blank, as if convincing themselves submission was safety.
Ember did neither.
But when she did not comply, the werewolf standing before her did not hesitate.
The claws came fast ripping, tearing.
Fabric shredded against talons, leaving thin red welts in its wake. Humiliation burned through her, hotter than the sting, deeper than the bruises.
Then—the showers.
She was humiliated and hurried into an extra-large shower. They were sprayed down with ice-cold water then, they were scrubbed roughly and rinsed off. Ember remembered the first bath from the first ceremony and almost missed it. Then they were taken through a hallway where they were blow dried.
This time they were allowed to choose what dress they would like to wear off of a certain rack. They were all white and all of them were a bit revealing. Ember chose garment with the most coverage. its A Lacey white dress with a slit up to her thigh and off shoulder straps. Despite its delicate appearance it was rather heavy.
Her thoughts wandered to the announcement as they set her down to do her hair and makeup.
"Fifteen days. Fifteen days under the scrutiny of royalty and power.
Fifteen days where the wolves who held the highest ranks could now claim them—take them. "
Ember exhaled slowly, forcing her body to remain still, her pulse ticking like a frantic clock inside her ribs.
She had already survived thirty-one days of this madness.
She had watched countless peers transformed, renamed, swallowed into submission.
But now—
Now the stakes were higher.
Now, the wolves that held the most control would step forward.
Now, there was even less room for escape. "
After every human was done, they were taken to a two-tiered trolley. Everybody was very well dressed and the trolley itself had scrolling on the outside and the inside had ivory carvings mixed with gold filigree. Despite the costly decorations she felt like it was a coffin.
Ember wondered why there was so much pomp and stance, for 'simple humans.'
Every desperate plan, every imagined escape, crumbled into nothing before she could grasp them—falling off a cliff of helplessness before they even formed.
But still—the rogue wilderness lingered at the edges of her mind, refusing to fade.
If she could survive unmarked, if she could endure fifteen days, maybe—just maybe—she could make it.
It wouldn't be easy.
The rogue wilderness was unforgiving, survival would be brutal, and even if she made it—what then?
But what was the chance, really?
Forty-five more days of this nightmare. Three more years of ceremonies.
Three more years of being paraded, inspected, stripped of choice—of dignity.
Three more years where escape would only get harder.
Was there any hope left at all?
Ember sank into a hollow numbness, her body moving forward on instinct while her mind drifted, untethered. Helplessness pressed in, thick and suffocating, swallowing her thoughts in a slow, relentless tide.
After a while, Ember caught snippets of conversation drifting from the guards—low murmurs laced with a strange mix of admiration and unease.
They spoke of the hierarchy—the ones who sat at the pinnacle of power—ruthless, feared, and restlessly wild.
There was reverence in their voices, mixed with cold fact. These werewolves did not rule with mercy. They conquered, by thriving on control.
Whatever happens next could is worse than anything before.
The Hunt Begins
The scent of pine clung to the air, fresh, wild, untamed—a stark contrast to the suffocating stone halls she had endured for a month.
The deep green expanse stretched before her, alive in a way the cold walls had never been, breathing, shifting, whispering with the wind.
It wasn't just a place—it was a tether to memory, a fragile thread binding her to something lost.
She had run through forests like this as a child—barefoot, reckless, free.
The underbrush had cradled her steps, the canopy had shielded her, and the wind had carried her laughter.
Now, the forest stood before her again, but this time—it didn't feel like play. It was survival.
It still felt like home.
Would it be her escape, or her grave?
The trolly stopped abruptly. They began to count the humans.
"We have 34 males!" shouted a male guard.
"And 97 females!" another voice barked back.
"All accounted for!"
Ember did the math instinctively, her mind snapping to the numbers with cold precision.
Her frown deepened.
What happened to the others?
They hurriedly began, shoving and herding everyone out.
In front of them stretched a gorgeous expanse—a field of wildflowers swaying in the breeze, tall grass shifting like waves under the afternoon sun.
Beyond that, the deep green forest stood like a silent guardian, its edges curling around the clearing, framing the distant shimmer of a glistening lake.
But none of that held Ember's focus.
Her eyes locked on the horizon, her breath hitching as she spotted them—the Great North Blue Mountains.
She hadn't seen the map since her failed attempt at the library, but she had memorized it painfully etched it into the fabric of her mind with a desperation that refused to fade.
The third peak—the one with the twisted summit—confirmed it.
This was the mountains from the map.
She remembered the stories—whispers of humans who had made it, who had somehow carved out a life beyond the reach of those who ruled.
Her heart hammered, a spark of hope surging through her chest for the first time in weeks.
If she reached the mountains—if she made it—
Would there be enough magic there?
Or even a lack of it—something strong enough, ancient enough, to strip away the enchanted silver and let her truly escape?
But before Ember could fully grasp her next thought, a very familiar high-pitched voice sliced through the air.
"Come one, come all, unclaimed mates—you are about to join the hunt!"
The spark of hope curdled, twisting into something far more dangerous.
A Hunt.
The word slammed through her, turning her blood to ice.
Before she could react—before her mind could fully comprehend—
The werewolves began circling.
Their movements were slow, deliberate—hungry.
Ember's pulse skipped, her breath catching, her feet shifting instinctively ready to move, ready to run, ready to seize whatever madness this was.
This wasn't just going to be a ceremony.
Not even a test.
It was a sick mind game.
And the only question left was—would there be rules?
Or was this pure, lawless chaos?
Ember's lungs locked, her muscles bracing instinctively—ready to move, ready to fight.
But there was nowhere to run. Yet.
The high man's voice slithered through the air, smooth, mocking.
"In today's event, for the enjoyment of our lords, ladies, dukes, duchesses, and so on and so forth… you may attempt to hide in the forest and surrounding area. You may hide, you may be still, but you will not exceed the lake's boundaries. You will be hunted for fifteen days."
Fifteen days.
Of running. Of hiding.
What the HELL?!
The words slammed into her like a blow—this wasn't just a game for the humans.
It was survival.
Then—the pause.
The speaker's grin stretched wide; teeth gleaming.
Like a predator savoring the moment before the prey bolts.
He turned to the wolves—eager, thrumming with anticipation, their excitement crackling like a live wire.
Whooping, laughing, stripping away anything unnecessary preparing for the chase.
Watches tossed aside. Shoes discarded. Skirts hitched; hair tied back.
Every movement was calculated. Efficient.
They weren't just excited.
They were hungry.
The atmosphere had shifted—ritual melting into primal instinct, waiting on command.
The tension hung thick, a fragile thread on the verge of snapping.
Then—the fanfare of bugles.
A sharp, commanding blast, cutting through the uneasy silence like a blade.
Some of the humans flinched, their bodies reacting before their minds caught up—pure instinct, pure fear.
A few even staggered forward, feet jerking as if to run, but the guards moved fast—gripping arms, blocking paths, shoving them back into place.
Stillness returned, but it was forced, trembling, unnatural.
Then—he emerged.
Alpha Prince Kieran stepped forward, and the space contracted around him, as if the very air bent to his will.
Tall, commanding, with a presence so absolute it felt woven into the fabric of instinct itself.
His movement was precise, effortless power coiled beneath each stride—not rushed, never uncertain.
He wore authority like a second skin, draped in dark, impeccable clothing that whispered of both restraint and control.
His gaze cut through the gathered bodies—piercing, unreadable, the sharp focus of a predator who never misses a detail.
The werewolves held their bows—heads low, spines rigid—not in fear, but in pure, unquestioned reverence.
This was not simply obedience.
This was devotion.
To his bloodline. His rule. His presence alone, which commanded submission without a single word spoken.
Ember felt the shift, the pulse of something far beyond mere dominance—this was an entity that ruled on instinct alone.
She had seen powerful wolves before.
But this—this was something else.
But this—this was something else.
The dark-haired man moved with a terrifying kind of control, his steps smooth yet commanding, exuding a presence that demanded reverence without effort.
Then—his eyes.
Striking, powerful green, sharpened with calculated focus, glowing like embers against the backdrop of the ceremony.
They swept over the gathering, not with curiosity, but with assessment. Judgment. Ownership.
A flicker of admiration sparked in the eyes of some wolves, brief but undeniable—an instinctive reaction, as if standing before something greater than themselves.
This wasn't just obedience.
It was something deeper.
The ceremony had been terrifying before.
But now—
Now it had become something worse.
Something far more dangerous.
Something far more inevitable.
The announcer's shrill voice shook for a moment, before recovering—his devilish grin widening as if reveling in the spectacle.
"Brothers and sisters, you may chase, you may play, you may tease—but do not maim, kill, mark, or mate. Once you have selected your potential mate, return to the pairing platform."
His outstretched arm directed all eyes to the stage—elaborately adorned, disturbingly familiar.
It bore the same grandiosity as those used in previous pairing ceremonies—silks draped in careful excess, golden accents catching the afternoon light, its beauty masking its purpose.
And at its center—the warlock stood, his presence a chilling constant, wisteria branch held in his grip like a relic of fate itself.
Even in the open air, the space felt suffocating.
A declaration dressed in grandeur and tradition yet threaded with the unmistakable undercurrent of a hunt in progress.
"You will have 15 days to search out a mate. After that, all humans still unpaired will be taken back to the selection tent."
Then—that pause.
That smile.
That mocking certainty, dripping from his expression—an unspoken truth woven between the words.
None of them would leave this untouched.
None of them would escape unscathed.
His gaze dragged over the gathering, lingering on the shifting faces, the barely concealed panic—until it locked.
Onto Ember.
A slow, deliberate meeting of eyes.
As if he knew.
As if he felt the defiance thrumming beneath her skin, the way her mind raced behind her mask of stillness, the way fear and calculation collided in her chest.
A predator recognizing a challenge.
A warning without words.
"Run."