The gnawing ache in my stomach wasn't new. It was a constant, unwelcome companion, a dull throb that had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. But today, it felt different. Sharper. More insistent. A grim premonition, I now realize, of the true, gut-wrenching hunger about to consume my soul.
My fingers, raw and chapped from the biting wind, scrabbled against the frozen, unforgiving earth. Each desperate tug at a brittle root sent a dull throb through my knuckles, a minor pain in a world overflowing with them. The air tasted of dust and despair, biting at my exposed skin through the thin, threadbare cloak that was my only shield against the unforgiving elements. Survival wasn't a choice; it was a daily, brutal fight for every meager scrap.
Just yesterday, the scent of a rival pack, musky and aggressive, had drifted too close to our fragile borders. My skin still prickled with the memory of that raw, predatory odor. I'd watched from the shadows as their scouts, hulking figures silhouetted against the dying light, prowled dangerously near our territory. Fear, sharp and cold, had coiled in my gut. We were too weak to fight. Too few. Too broken.
"They're too strong, Caelan," my elder sister, Elara, had whispered, her voice barely a breath. Her eyes, wide and haunted, mirrored the desperation that was a permanent fixture on every face in our failing pack. "We barely have enough for tonight, let alone to stand against them."
My throat tightened, a familiar knot of frustration and helplessness. Always trying. Always failing. I'd spent my entire life trying to be useful, trying to earn my keep, but as an omega, my contributions often felt invisible, my efforts overlooked. I felt like a ghost, working tirelessly, yet utterly unseen. The bitter truth was, in a pack struggling to survive, I was nothing more than another mouth to feed, another burden. Was I truly so easily discarded? So utterly worthless? A flicker of resentment, quickly swallowed, stirred within me, a tiny ember in a heart choked with despair.
I found a root, thicker than most, and pulled. It resisted, clinging stubbornly to the frozen soil, a perfect reflection of my own futile struggle. Just as I finally tore it free, a chilling murmur carried on the cruel wind, whispers from the elders huddled in the distant, dilapidated common tent. Their voices were low, urgent, laced with panic.
"The Northern King… Ares…" one elder muttered, his voice raspy, barely audible above the wind's mournful howl.
"An ultimatum," another added, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Anything to avoid war. We have no other choice."
My blood ran cold, freezing in my veins. War? The word felt like a death knell. Ares. The Lycan King. Even his name was a brutal whisper, a legend of untamed power and terrifying ruthlessness. I'd heard the stories of his empire, forged in blood and iron, stretching across the desolate, unforgiving North. He was a beast, a force of nature. To incur his wrath meant absolute annihilation.
My hands trembled, clutching the muddy root, as a sickening realization began to dawn. My stomach churned, no longer from hunger, but from pure, unadulterated dread. Why were they talking about a treaty? Why an ultimatum? Why… us? A shiver, colder than the wind, traced my spine, oblivious to the fact that I was about to become the ultimate price of their desperate peace.
The hushed voices continued, weaving a web of fear around me. "He demands... a bride." The words, though barely whispered, hit me like a physical blow. A bride. For him. A chilling certainty settled deep in my bones, a cold, hard knot that refused to loosen. My gaze instinctively darted around the desolate landscape, as if a miracle might suddenly appear, a way out of the inevitable. But there was nothing. Only the barren earth, the relentless wind, and the suffocating realization that my fate was no longer my own. Looking back, I should have known the whispers of destiny, laced with terror, had been following me my whole life.