Pain was the first thing Ember knew.
It clawed through her ribs, threading fire through her skull as she stirred from unconsciousness. Every part of her felt fractured, like the failed spell had torn something vital from her. Her breaths came shallow, trembling as she reached for her forehead.
The circlet was still there.
Mocking her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to keep breathing. No more attempts—she knew that now. The magic had resisted her like a living thing, not just a forged relic, but a cage with teeth. The agony had been more than she could bear, more than she was willing to endure again.
She wouldn't try again. Couldn't.
A voice stirred the silence.
"You are awake."
Ember's gaze flickered toward the elder wolf standing beside her bed, their silvered hair pulled into an intricate braid. Their eyes—wise, tired—held something quiet beneath them. Sympathy, maybe. Or something closer to regret.
"You fought against something that is not yours to break," the healer murmured. "Only the maker may unbind it."
A pause. Ember could hear the weight before the words came.
"And that human has been dead for centuries."
Her stomach twisted, the knowledge pressing into her like a stone. Permanent. That meant there was no one left to undo it. No loophole. No easy escape.
She was trapped.
The elder wolf shifted, hands folding together like they knew more than they could say.
"There is no undoing what has been forged," they said, voice dipping into something cautious. "And yet... if that were entirely true, we would not be speaking now."
Ember frowned, pushing past the nausea twisting inside her. We?
The healer watched her carefully, lips pressing together as if measuring their next words.
"Once," they murmured, just barely above a whisper. "I wore the silver too."
Ember's blood turned cold. Human. They were once—
But the elder wolf exhaled sharply, eyes darkening.
"It is not a story I am permitted to tell."
The words dropped like a blade between them, final and absolute. Ember opened her mouth, but the healer was already standing, shifting away as if afraid of lingering too long.
"You are forbidden from trying again," they said, voice firmer now. "The magic will not allow it. You may seek another path, but do not test the circlet again."
Ember swallowed hard, her pulse a war drum in her chest. Another path? What other path could there be?
She was confined now, monitored too closely to gather supplies, even if she had the strength left in her bones to fight back. And the stories filtering through the human quarters—the whispers and warnings—only made everything worse.
No human could walk away. No werewolf could claim a found mate without their selection being tested.
Ember still hadn't learned what that meant.
Her rebellion, once sharp as steel, was faltering. But she hadn't given up.
Not completely.
Not yet.
Her ears remained open. Every conversation. Every rumor. Every flicker of doubt.
Hope was a dangerous thing. But she wasn't ready to bury it—not entirely.
---
The day arrived too soon.
Though the bruises and redness had faded beneath the elder's healing ability, Ember's body still ached as she was escorted from the sterile chamber. A final makeover, they called it.
She was thrown into a clawfoot tub, scrubbed with ruthless efficiency—rough hands, cold water, soap that stung against healing wounds. The brushes tangled mercilessly in her hair, pulling at her scalp until skilled hands shaped it into a tight round bun, delicate ringlets framing her face in a way that felt intentional. Controlled.
Light makeup followed—a soft rouge, red-painted lips, a gown she never would have chosen. The white cotton clung more shapely than she liked, the neckline exposing far too much of her collarbone.
Then—she was rushed forward, pushed harder and faster.
The wooden doors loomed ahead, towering and unyielding. And beyond them—
The arena, cold and vast. The towering stone walls etched with ancient markings—a reminder of how old this system was, how deeply entrenched.
Each of them was placed in a collar like a dog, then attached by chains linking to a horizontal set of poles—rows of them, stretching across the floor in grim symmetry. Thirty to each length. At least ten poles in total. And they were low enough to sit on.
She stepped inside. And immediately, she was ushered into an unexpected orientation, placed among the other found mates.
They whispered anxiously among themselves. Ember barely listened. Her mind raced, searching for an escape clause, some gap in the ceremony, some fault in the rules—
The voice rang out, shrill and sharp—a high-pitched man, his tone cutting the murmurs like a blade.
The first category was spoken aloud.
The voice rang out, shrill and sharp—a high-pitched man, his tone cutting across the silence like a blade.
"Silence!"
The room fell still, every found mate stiffening under the weight of expectation.
Then, the rules were laid bare.
Some mates were chosen by destiny itself. A werewolf could sense their mate instantly, their scent and touch igniting something primal, undeniable—a pull as ancient as the moon itself.
Ember swallowed.
She didn't believe in fate, but she understood one cruel truth—if she was one of the fated ones, she could be claimed immediately. No waiting. No reprieve.
It was then declared:
All first-year and second-year found mates could only be taken as true mates—destined, indisputable bonds that would override any choice.
If they remained unclaimed, then in their third and fourth ceremonies, any werewolf could claim them as a mate.
"Not likely," sneered the high-voiced man, almost amused by the notion.
But the final rule—the one whispered about in terror—was spoken.
Those who did not bond by the end of their fourth year were tossed into the rogue pit.
No protection. No ceremony.
Only instinct. Only carnage.
Any rogue wolf could claim, mark, or kill them.
The mere mention of it sent a ripple of terror through the gathered found mates, some clutching their wrists, others barely breathing.
And Ember—though she hid her fear—felt it latch onto her bones.
Her path was set.
Her options were none.
And the only thing left was to find a way to shatter the system before it swallowed her whole.
Then—a voice.
Soft, fleeting, almost drowned beneath the weight of the high-pitched man's booming declarations.
Ember barely caught it, her mind wandering—spiraling—until something sharp cut through the haze.
"At that time, your silver will come off."
Her breath stilled.
She snapped back to the moment, searching for the source, but the words had already melted into the sea of bodies, swallowed by the next relentless command.
Her heartbeat quickened.
For the first time, she wasn't just listening for an escape.
She was waiting for the truth.