"He rejected me like I was nothing. Now he's demanding I come to him. And the worst part? They expect me to obey."
The knock came just as I finished writing my second entry of the day—another loose thread of thoughts, half memory, half warning to myself. My hand had been flowing across the page for nearly an hour, the ink dark against the parchment, my thoughts darker still. Writing had become my refuge in this strange imprisonment—though the Elders would never call it that. They preferred terms like "protective custody" or "observation period." As if changing the name changed what it was.
It wasn't timid, that knock.
Three short, clipped strikes against the old wooden door. Authoritative. Demanding. Expectant.
Not a Keeper. Not Alira with her soft knuckles and respectful pauses.
This was something else.
I froze with my pen still in hand, silver light barely flickering from the ink-smudged tips of my fingers. The magic had been more responsive today, more eager to manifest with each passing hour. Sometimes I'd look down to find my hands glowing without any conscious effort—as if my power had decided to breathe on its own. The silence that followed the knock was unnerving. Like the knock itself had shaken the room, and now everything—even the air—was holding its breath.
I stood slowly, spine stiff, legs reluctant. The wooden chair scraped against the stone floor as I pushed it back, the sound jarring in the tense quiet. My journal lay open on the desk, vulnerable with its secrets. I closed it quickly, running my palm over the leather cover as if sealing away evidence.
Maybe it's just more questions. More "observation." More of them pretending to be polite while watching me like I'm a loaded weapon with no safety.
But something in my gut—something older than thought, more primal than reason—told me this was different. The air itself felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. My wolf stirred, raising her head inside me, suddenly alert. I smoothed my hair back with one hand, buying time, steadying nerves that shouldn't need steadying.
But the moment I cracked the door open, my instincts screamed.
Two Keepers in full ceremonial grey cloaks stood in the hallway like sentinels—hoods drawn up despite being indoors, hands clasped at their waists, faces partially shadowed. The formal attire was reserved for official Council business or ritual ceremonies. Not casual visits. Not friendly check-ins.
Between them, unmistakable in stature and gravity, was Elder Thorne. He wore his usual austere black robes, but something about him seemed more formal today—more rigid. His silver hair was pulled back severely from his angular face, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his cheeks. His eyes, those pale blue orbs that seemed to miss nothing, fixed on mine immediately.
He didn't speak immediately. Just looked at me like he had a stone sitting on his chest and he wasn't sure if he should let it roll off or not. His expression was a complex mixture of resignation and caution—and something else I couldn't quite name. Sympathy, perhaps? Or anticipation?
"Evelyn Hart," he said, voice low, using my full name with deliberate formality. "You've received a formal summons."
I blinked, the words not immediately registering. "What?"
He stepped forward and extended a scroll sealed with blood-red wax—the imprint sharp and unmistakable against the cream-colored parchment. The wax looked fresh, still glossy in the dim hallway light. Someone had rushed this here, treating it with the urgency usually reserved for declarations of war or territorial breaches.
A crescent moon split by a fang.
My breath hitched, the air suddenly too thick to draw into my lungs properly. My fingers tingled with silver light that threatened to flare in response to the shock of recognition.
"Kael."
The name escaped me before I could stop it—a whisper caught between disbelief and dread. The bond in my chest tightened at the mere utterance of his name, a phantom pain that radiated outward from my sternum.
Thorne inclined his head once, barely perceptible. His expression remained neutral, carefully composed, but there was something in his eyes—a watchfulness. "The Alpha has invoked ancient territorial law. He requests your presence at his estate immediately."
"Requests?" I repeated, bitterly. The word tasted wrong on my tongue—too polite, too diplomatic for what this was. We both knew what "request" meant coming from an Alpha. Especially this Alpha.
"He stated he would not accept delay."
Of course he did.
The words hung unspoken between us, but I saw the acknowledgment in Thorne's eyes. He understood exactly what kind of man Kael Blackthorn was. What kind of Alpha. The kind who commanded rather than asked. The kind who expected rather than hoped.
I took the scroll with slow, careful hands and turned it over, examining it as if it might bite. The weight of it felt significant—too heavy for mere paper and wax. Too consequential.
The wax seal stared back at me like an accusation. Like a reminder of everything I'd lost. Everything he'd taken.
I broke it open and unfolded the parchment, the crisp sound unnaturally loud in the silent hallway. The handwriting was instantly recognizable—sharp, utilitarian strokes in black ink, no flourishes, no hesitation, just as direct and unyielding as the man himself:
To the Elder Council,
This is Alpha Kael Blackthorn of the Crescent Fang Pack.
I am invoking my right as territorial Alpha to summon Evelyn Hart to my estate immediately. There are unresolved matters that require her presence, and I will not tolerate delay.
This is not a request.
—K. Blackthorn
I read it twice, each word sharper than the last. My fingers traced the letters unconsciously, as if searching for some hidden meaning behind the cold formality. There was none.
Business.
Presence.
Compliance.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just power. Just command.
My stomach twisted, a knot of emotions too tangled to separate—rage, anxiety, bitterness, and something else I refused to name. Something dangerously close to anticipation. "And you're going to let this happen?"
Thorne met my eyes steadily, unflinching in the face of my rising anger. "It's not about letting. The law is clear. He has the right."
"Even after he—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't put into words what he'd done to me before the entire pack. Before the Goddess herself.
"Yes," he cut in gently, not unkindly. "Even after that."
The unfairness of it burned like acid in my throat. After everything—the rejection, the humiliation, the pain that transformed me—he still had rights over me? Still had the power to command my presence as if I were just another wolf in his territory?
My hands curled into fists around the parchment, crumpling its edges. Heat bloomed in my palms—not from anger, not entirely.
From magic.
The bond.
It pulsed in response to his name. His writing. His pull. Silver light leaked between my fingers, illuminating the paper from beneath, making the black ink gleam with an unnatural sheen.
Thorne's eyes flicked down to my hands. He saw the light rising beneath the surface of my skin, crawling up my wrists in thin, luminous veins. But he said nothing about it. Didn't react, didn't warn me to control it. Just gave a slight nod toward the hall, an unspoken instruction to prepare.
"You have one hour to prepare."
With that, he stepped back. The Keepers moved in perfect unison, pivoting to face the corridor. None of them spoke again. They simply waited for me to close the door, to accept what could not be changed.
I shut the door slowly, the click of the latch final and condemning.
I didn't speak for a long time after the door shut.
I stood motionless in the center of the room, the scroll still clutched in my hand like a brand. The parchment was warm now, almost hot where the silver light had touched it. I stared at the wall, seeing nothing, mind racing through implications, possibilities, dangers.
Why now?
Why like this?
The last time Kael looked at me, he'd called me unworthy.
Rejected me before everyone.
Left me broken on the ground.
Now he was summoning me.
No context.
No remorse.
Not even the courtesy of pretending it was something else.
It was as if the Ceremony hadn't happened. As if he had the right to pull me like a leash.