Chapter 1 The Scent of Treason

The air at the Silver Border did not smell like the peace our fathers had promised. It smelled of ozone, wet earth, and the sharp, metallic tang of unsheathed steel. Above us, the moon was a sliver of bone against a bruised purple sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the ravine that divided the Silver River territory from the Blood Moon stronghold.

I adjusted the grip on my dual daggers. The cold leather hilts bit into my palms, a grounding sensation against the frantic thudding of my heart. My hair, a striking, pure white characteristic of the Silverstream bloodline, whipped around my face in the biting wind. Ten paces ahead of me stood my father, Alpha Silas. His silver hair caught the moonlight as he stood with the spine of a King who had carried the weight of a century-long war. Yet, as the wind picked up, I caught the slight tremor in his fingers. He was terrified, though he would never admit it.

"They are late," I whispered. My words were barely a thread in the wind, swallowed by the roar of the river below.

"Patience, Lyra," my father replied. His voice was a low rumble that lacked its usual iron. He did not turn around. "A century of blood is not washed away in a single minute. The Blackwoods are many things, but they are not cowards. They will show."

I shifted my weight, the frost-covered gravel crunching beneath my boots. I had been raised for this moment, though not in the way my father intended. I was not here to be a diplomat. I was the fail-safe. I had been conditioned since my first shift to see the Blood Moon wolves as savages, monsters who intended to erase our light from the map.

Suddenly, the forest across the ravine groaned. The ancient oaks seemed to shiver as towering silhouettes detached themselves from the darkness. One by one, they stepped into the moonlight. These were the warriors of the Blood Moon, men and women built of scars, jet-black fur, and ancient grudges.

At their head walked a man who made the very oxygen in the air feel heavy. Killian Blackwood.

I had seen the tactical sketches, but they were pale, lifeless imitations. Killian was a mountain of dark intent. His hair was as black as a raven's wing, falling over his brow in sharp contrast to the predatory gold of his eyes. He was dressed in a tailored black overcoat that looked out of place in the wild forest, yet he wore it with the grace of a wolf. He did not look like a billionaire tech mogul or a diplomat. He looked like the end of the world.

As his pack stopped at the edge of the bridge, Killian's gold eyes scanned our line. When they landed on me, the world did not just stop. It shattered.

A jolt of raw, electric heat slammed into my chest, radiating through my veins like liquid fire. My wolf, Selene, let out a soul-shaking howl inside my mind. It was a sound of recognition I had been taught to fear.

Mate.

The word echoed in my skull, a treasonous whisper. I dug my nails into the leather of my hilts until my knuckles turned white. He was the enemy. He was the butcher who had led the charge against our borders.

Killian stepped onto the narrow stone bridge. Each footfall was silent, yet the presence he projected was deafening. He stopped at the center, the exact midpoint between our two worlds. He beckoned for us to approach.

As we reached the center of the bridge, the scent hit me. It was not the musk of a beast. It was cedarwood, bitter dark chocolate, and the crisp, biting scent of winter spice. It was intoxicating. My inner wolf whined, wanting to lean in and scent the hollow of his neck.

He stood only three feet away. Up close, his gold eyes were terrifying, amber flecked with obsidian. A jagged scar ran along his jawline, a silver mark from a battle that had cost my father his best men.

His eyes narrowed as they searched mine. I saw it then. A flash of the same agonizing confusion and raw, primal hunger that was currently tearing my soul apart. He felt it too. The bond was a two-way bridge, and we were both drowning.

"You must be Lyra," he murmured. The words were a private frequency, a low growl that skipped over my skin like a physical touch.

I did not back down. I stepped into his space, the scent of chocolate and cedar growing stronger. "And you must be the man I am supposed to kill if this meeting goes sideways."

A dark, dangerous smirk ghosted over his lips. "I would like to see you try, little bird."

"Enough," Alpha Silas interrupted, sensing the lethal tension. He stepped between us, looking small compared to Killian's massive frame. "The Council of Elders has made its decree. To ensure our race survives, our families have agreed to a union. A blood-bond that cannot be broken by pride or petty grudges."

I felt the blood drain from my face. My skin turned as cold as the frost on the bridge. "Father, what are you saying? The treaty was for land rights."

"The treaty changed, Lyra," Silas said, his voice breaking.

Killian's expression turned to granite. He looked past us to his own father, Alpha Valerius, who had emerged from the shadows. The two Alphas stood together, weary survivors of a war they could no longer afford to fight.

"The war ends tonight," Valerius announced. His voice boomed through the trees like a death knell. "By the next full moon, the heirs of the two greatest packs will be joined. Lyra Silverstream, you are to be the bride of the Blood Moon."

The forest went silent. Even the wind seemed to stop. I looked at Killian, expecting him to roar in protest. Instead, his gaze dropped to my mouth. The gold in his pupils flared, darkening until they were almost black. His possessiveness was a physical weight.

"It seems," Killian said, his voice dropping into a territorial rumble, "that I will not have to worry about you killing me. I will be too busy keeping you in my bed."

I did not think. I swung. My right dagger whistled through the air in a blur of silver, aimed straight for his throat.

Killian did not flinch. His hand shot out, catching my wrist in a grip of iron. The contact sent a massive surge of electricity through us both. He twisted my arm slightly, pulling me flush against his hard chest. His heat was a furnace.

"Careful, wife," he hissed against my ear. His breath was hot and smelled of mint. "We have not even said our vows yet."

Author's Note:

Welcome to the start of an epic journey! I am so excited to share the story of Lyra and Killian with you. This is a tale of ancient grudges, fated bonds, and a peace treaty neither of them wanted. 🌙✨

Did Lyra really just try to take his head off? It looks like our Alpha has his hands full! What would you do if you were in Lyra's shoes? Would you fight the bond or follow the scent of cedar and chocolate? 🍫🌲

Drop a comment below! I want to hear your theories and who you are rooting for. I will be replying to my favorites, so let's get the conversation started! 🐺🔥