Chapter 1 - The Echo of Shattered Glass
The air inside Dartmouth Citadel did not merely carry the chill of the northern winter; it bore the heavy, suffocating weight of centuries of arrogance. High above the great hall, massive iron chandeliers cast long, jagged shadows across tapestries depicting ancient hunts and slaughtered beasts. Below, the aristocracy of the realm—alphas with chests puffed in pride and betas draped in silks—feasted upon roasted meats and spiced wines, their laughter echoing like the braying of jackals.
Rowena Sterling stood frozen at the edge of the dais, her knuckles white as she gripped the silver goblet. Every drop of wine inside it seemed to mock her trembling fingers. She was nineteen, an age when every noble female of her rank should have commanded a pack of her own, or at least run stride-for-stride with an alpha mate through the moonlit pines. Instead, she was a ghost in her own home. A hollow shell.
"Look at her," a low voice sneered from the adjacent table, loud enough to carry. "Holding that cup like it’s a kingdom, when everyone knows she couldn't even conquer a shivering hare."
A ripple of cruel amusement swept through the crowd. Rowena kept her gaze locked onto the stone floor, watching the firelight dance across her worn leather shoes—shoes that had been handed down from Beatrice, worn thin at the toes and scuffed at the heels.
Lord Reginald, her father, did not even glance her way. His attention was entirely consumed by King Godfrey, who sat slumped upon the golden throne, a crown of hammered iron and polished amber resting heavily upon his thinning gray hair. The king’s court was a den of vipers, and Reginald was eager to feed any victim to them if it meant securing another slice of territory for House Sterling.
"Lord Blackwood," King Godfrey rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "You summoned the girl to your table. Surely you have not changed your mind regarding the ancient compact between our houses?"
Cedric Blackwood rose slowly. He was everything Rowena was not: broad-shouldered, towering, his dark hair falling across a face chiselled by ruthless ambition. His scent—heavy with the musk of pine and scorched earth—rolled across the hall, choking out the sweeter floral perfumes of the court.
"Your Majesty," Cedric began, his voice dripping with calculated disdain. "When my father signed this betrothal contract ten winters ago, we were led to believe House Sterling produced blood worthy of the Western Reaches. We expected a mate. Not a liability."
Rowena’s breath hitched. She looked up, her dark eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea. Cedric. Please. Not here. Not in front of them all.
"The girl is an abomination," Cedric continued, his eyes locking onto hers with pure venom. "A wolfless omega. A creature of silence who cannot even shift, let alone stand beside an alpha in the hunt. If I take her to the Blackwood peaks, she will freeze before the first moon wanes—and she will bring shame to my bloodline."
"She is my daughter only in name, Cedric," Lord Reginald interjected smoothly, standing to distance himself entirely from her. "House Sterling disavows her weakness. Do with her as the laws of the feast permit."
The words struck Rowena harder than any physical blow. Disavows her. The father who had ignored her existence now actively signed her death warrant to appease a rising alpha.
Beatrice, radiant in a crimson gown that clung to her curves like fresh blood, stepped forward with a feline grace. She rested a manicured hand upon Cedric’s arm, her auburn hair catching the torchlight.
"A strong alpha requires a fierce companion," Beatrice murmured, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "If Cedric requires a true mate of House Sterling, I am right here."
Godfrey stroked his beard, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "A bold proposal. What say you, Reginald? Will you trade a broken vessel for a gleaming prize?"
"I consent, Your Majesty," Reginald declared instantly, bowing low. "Let the betrothal pass to Beatrice. And as for the outcast... let the citadel deal with her as it sees fit."
Before Rowena could scream, before she could even drop the silver goblet, heavy hands seized her shoulders. Silas, the citadel’s master-at-arms, a brutal beta with a jagged scar twisting across his left cheek, hauled her backward. With a savage wrench, he gripped the embroidered silver wolf crest sewn into the breast of her simple wool dress and ripped it away. The fabric tore with a sickening sound, taking a layer of raw flesh with it. Rowena gasped, tears instantly springing to her eyes as a line of crimson welled across her chest.
"Out," Silas snarled, shoving her toward the massive oak doors. "The court has no room for runts."
They dragged her down the long aisle as the nobles jeered, tossing scraps of bread and empty bones at her back. The heavy doors swung open, and the freezing gale of the northern wasteland rushed in, a wall of white death that smelled of ice and ancient sorrow.
May you like
With a final, brutal kick to her ribs, Silas sent her flying out onto the frozen marble steps.
"Die quietly in the snow, little wolf," Silas spat, and the great doors slammed shut with a thunderous echo, locking her out from the warmth, the light, and any shred of mercy.
