The silver was cold against her skull.
It pressed down like a silent verdict, its weight more than metal—it was law, it was control, it was ownership.
For a moment, Ember could not breathe. The world blurred, voices fading into a distant hum as she stared into the pool—the waters still flickering with the afterglow of her blood. She wished she could reach in,
scoop it back out, erase what had just happened.
But the magic did not lie.
She had been found. A mate awaited her.
The whispers had already begun, sliding between the gathered wolves like threads of fire. Some murmured of fate, others of power. This one is stronger than the rest. The light burned bright—it means something.
It didn't matter what it meant. She didn't want it.
Her pulse hammered as the warlock finished fastening the headdress, his bony fingers adjusting the silver chains that draped along her forehead. The weight wasn't just physical—it was permanent.
She had seen others wear it before—marked humans waiting to be claimed. Once it was placed, it never came off until the picking ceremony, the final step before their fate was sealed in blood and magic.
Until then, the silver was untouchable.
The empire's laws ensured it stayed. If a werewolf tried to remove it, they would face a public flogging. If a human dared to pry it
off—
The punishment was worse. Not just hunger. Not just pain. Their entire families erased. Except for anyone that have been marked with silver of course, they still had to use.
Ember swallowed hard. She had no family left. She could afford to have tried.
And yet… even now, even with the silver burning against her skin, she still had the instinct to run.
The northern forests had always been her hope. The mountains beyond them whispered of freedom—of something untouched by the empire's shadow.
But now…
Now, every move she made would be known.
The silver's enchantment bound her to watchful eyes. If she ran, the empire would know.
And so, as the warlock stepped back and the ceremony concluded, Ember did the only thing she could—she lowered her gaze, clenched her fists at her sides, and forced herself not to scream.
---
The walk back to the orphanage was silent.
Ember kept her head down, ignoring the glances of the other servants, the curious looks from wolves who had seen the fire in the waters.
She did not want their attention. She wanted out.
She barely felt the chill as she stepped through the front gates, the familiar scent of damp stone and old linens washing over her.
No one spoke to her, but she was marked now.
Marked humans were not treated the same. They were not yelled at, shoved aside, beaten for mistakes—not because they were valued, but because they are now unclaimed property.
An object waiting for a master.
She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to keep walking.
A cot awaited her in the far corner of the servant's quarters. She sat on its edge, staring blankly at the wall, her fingers tracing
the silver pendant resting against her forehead.
She thought of Cheyenne. His name was supposed to be Cayenne, but the werewolves did not care what the humans were to be named.
Her brother was torn away at eighteen.
The empire had ripped him from their home, tearing apart the illusion of safety her parents had tried so desperately to maintain.
But even before that, they had fought for him.
They had hidden him, for two years, they had kept his age a secret, desperately clinging to the hope that they could keep him away from the telling waters.
But secrets never lasted under the empire's rule.
The night they came for Cheyenne was heavy with silence—punctuated only by choked sobs, by her mother's shaking hands, by her father's clenched jaw.
Even now, Ember could hear it.
The grief. The resignation.
The way her parents collapsed when the wolves dragged him from their home, knowing they would never truly see him again, he came back once.
Changed.
He wore the silver, his expression unreadable as he stood in their doorway, looking at the people who had fought to save him.
He was still Cheyenne, and he was also not.
The empire had branded him with magic, and it had won.
Ember had lost her brother.
And now… she was about to lose herself.
---
She didn't sleep that night.
The silver headdress pressed against her skin, reminding her—constantly, relentlessly—that she had no way out.
She had planned her escape for years.
Studied the forests, memorized paths through the mountains, scouted the edges of the empire's reach.
But now, the enchantment would betray her every step.
Her thoughts spiraled, sharp and suffocating.
Was there still a way?
Could she find someone who knew magic? Could she tear the enchantment away, shatter its hold before the claiming ceremony?
She thought of old stories, whispered between servants, tales of humans who had escaped.
Most were myths, but not all myths were false. A seed of rebellion took root in her chest.
The empire wanted obedience.
They wanted submission.
She had spent years giving them just enough to survive.
But now…
She wasn't sure she could keep pretending.
The claiming ceremony was weeks away. Thanks to a new law no found mate could wait until they're eighteenth birthday, before the caravan for the claiming ceremony came.
Ember thought that maybe that it was because too many had tried to escape in order to avoid the inevitable.
If she didn't find a way to break free, she would be claimed. After all, nobody came back from the claiming ceremony.
And she knew, with a certainty that sat deep in her bones—
She would rather die than belong to any of them.