The bone-white moon hangs like a judge over the Iron River clearing, bleeding silver light onto the bared throats of the pack. Amara stands at the center, her breath a plume of frost in the midnight air. This is the moment of the Joining, where the Alpha claims the bloodline that will anchor his rule. She feels the weight of the silver comb in her pocket, a gift for a union she believed was destiny. It presses against her thigh, cold and sharp-toothed, as heavy as the secret already stirring deep in her womb.
Alpha Garrick steps forward, his grey eyes flat and devoid of the heat they held three weeks ago in the cedar groves. He does not reach for her hand. Instead, he turns toward Elara, whose father owns the northern timberlands, and raises his voice so the trees themselves might witness the blow. "Amara Nwosu, you are not of the blood I require," he declares, the words striking like iron hammers. A ripple of shock passes through the gathered wolves, followed by a terrifying, predatory silence. She is discarded, a redundant branch of a dying tree, made rogue in a single heartbeat.
Garrick turns his back, and the crowd begins to part, leading her toward the edge of the forest.
