Once Ember was on the werewolf side of the kingdom, her headpiece stopped glowing.
Then after many questions and overheard conversations, she discovered the chilling reality of the Mate Pairing Ceremony, an event lasting three relentless months! Wolves and their found mates got thrust into a cycle of social gatherings, where werewolf instinct ruled above personal choice. For the humans, there was no autonomy—only the fate assigned to them.
Rumors lingered like whispers in the dark. The werewolves had some unknowable force guiding them to their "found mates." Whether truth or folklore, Ember was determined to decipher it. However, the certainty with which werewolves rejected those deemed not their true mate disturbed her. If a pairing was wrong, the human was released, tossed back into the ever-thinning crowd to wait for another fate. But who decided that? What force dictated true mates?
Although only rummers, she heard that the stakes only grew darker. Those who remained unpaired were removed from sight—placed out of sight, like belongings being stored away, their existence fading into silence, only waiting for the next ceremony. They could linger in this limbo until the age of twenty-one or until someone found them as a mate.
The more she heard of the ceremony, the less she wanted to be forced into it.
So Ember needed knowledge—and knowledge required secrecy.
They where allowed to wonder a campus that was heavly guarded.And on that campus was an ancient, giant, ornate building that gave Ember newfound hope, a library.If she could do some research in this world maybe she could get somewhere.
'But where do I start?' she thought.
The silver headpiece had to be the key. The enchantment locked her in place, branding her as property, but there had to be something more to its magic. She'd overheard werewolves murmur about enchantments that held power only if the wearer accepted their binding. If that was true, then rejection—outright refusal—could break it.
Then she found it in the shadows of an ancient wing, tucked away in its depths, a shelf dedicated to enchantments. Ember uncovered the pieces she hope she needed. The air was thick with dust, the scent of aging parchment pressing against her senses as she ran her fingers over the brittle pages of forgotten tomes. This was her last chance—her only chance. If she failed to find the answer tonight, she would have no time left, to remove the silver headpiece and run.
Rows upon rows of texts whispered of the kingdom's forgotten magic—spells woven into items; rules built upon centuries of tradition. Her pulse hammered as she scanned passages, tracing ink faded with time. Some enchantments unraveled with precise words. Others with sheer willpower. But what of the one binding her?
Frustration burned in her throat. She flipped page after page, each revelation tightening the noose around her fate. The silver circlet was no mere adornment—it was a contract, inked into magic itself, binding its wearer to a future chosen before their birth. Her fingers trembled over the lines detailing its purpose. She refused to accept it.
Then she saw it—a breaking spell.
The words stared back at her, tangled in warnings and complexity, woven between histories of those who had tried and failed. Ember inhaled sharply. This was it. The only way out. But breaking a contract of this scale carried consequences. If she failed, if she messed up even once, there would be a no second chance. The ceremony was in two days.
The walls of the library seemed to tighten around her, silence pressing in like the weight of the kingdom itself. She had to choose—submit to the fate forced upon her, or risk everything to shatter the chains they had wrapped around her soul.
It was in the shadows of that libray wing that Ember risked everything. Beneath vaulted ceilings and the flickering glow of hidden candles, she moved like a wraith among towering shelves of decrepit, leather-bound tomes. The musty aroma of decaying parchment mingled with the whisper of ancient secrets—a scent that became the aroma of promised salvation even while it reminded her of the heavy cost of her past failure.
Every step was measured and deliberate, as though she were treading on the echoes of those who had dared defy fate before her. The library's silence, punctuated only by the soft rustle of turning pages, pressed in around her like a silent witness to her rebellion. As her thoughts wandered, Ember couldn't shake the memories of her past—a lifetime spent as a human slave. In that harsh upbringing, punishment was swift and brutal, with no room for mercy; yet ever since entering this dark, new world, she had known nothing more than stern words. The ghost of that former life now mingled with her determination, fueling an inner conflict: the desperate urge to escape and the lingering terror of reprisals.
In a secluded wing in the library, amidst texts detailing lost rituals and arcane lore, Ember uncovered a cache of potent relics. Nestled among these forgotten treasures were crucial ingrediencies for her ritual. There was a small bundle of sweet-smelling Dagwood bark, its rich aroma hinting at powerful natural magic. Nearby lay a vial emitting the overpowering, nauseating fumes of dragon musk—a scent so sharp it nearly made her stomach churn. And, as if fate had carefully arranged it, an unopened jar labeled "Lumberg and Newt" sat silently, its mysterious contents promising to add the missing element to her breaking spell.
Beyond these ingredients, a meticulously drawn ancient map immediately captured her attention. The map was rendered on fragile papyrus, its surface marked by an exquisitely embossed royal seal. Though time had faded its ink, the seal glimmered reassuringly, making her feel that this relic was as reliable as it was ancient. Detailed upon the map were the rugged outlines of the northern frontier, where the towering North Mountains loomed like silent sentinels. One particularly intriguing feature—a cone-shaped marking among the mountains—hinted at the ruins of a lost sanctuary. This discovery resonated with a shrouded memory of a mysterious note that had once been slipped beneath her pillow, reading, "the north remembers, look for ruins."
As Ember absorbed these revelations, her thoughts turned bitterly toward the werewolf city that confined her. Even though she could not explore them, the giant city buildings, cold and imposing, had become a constant reminder of the oppression she despised. She missed the gentle murmur of a creek, the whisper of wind through the woodland, and the comfort of nature that once cradled her human world. That yearning for the wild—the woods, the clear water of a creek—rekindled her determination. It underscored everything; her quest was not only one of escape but also a desperate return to a world she longed for.
In that dim-lit repository of forgotten magic, every item she gathered—the fragrant Dagwood bark, the acrid dragon musk, the enigmatic jar of "Lumberg and Newt," and the ancient papyrus map with its royal seal—became more than mere ingredients for a breaking spell. They were symbols of her last, hopeful, and defiant stand against fate. With each artifact cradled in her trembling hands, Ember felt her resolve become as unyielding as the royal seal's imprint. Tonight, was her final chance to sever the chains that bound her, now all she needed was food and a makeshift shelter, but that was the easy part.