1
Aven Lark had learned early that silence was safer than truth.
It was not a lesson taught gently.
The stone beneath her bare feet held the cold of night, even as dawn began to creep through the narrow slats of the high windows. The training hall was empty at this hour, which was why she had chosen it. No eyes. No voices. No reason to be noticed.
She preferred it that way.
Aven adjusted the cloth wrapped around her hands, long strands of blonde hair slipping loose from where she had tied it back. They fell in tangled waves down her spine, catching briefly against the raised ridges of old scars before settling there. She ignored it, as she ignored most things, and stepped forward, driving her fist into the hanging post.
The impact sent a sharp sting up her arm.
Not strong enough.
She struck again, and then again, each blow measured rather than reckless. She did not expect strength to come from it. That had never been the point. Movement kept her thoughts contained, and contained thoughts were easier to manage. When her mind wandered, it remembered.
And remembering was rarely useful.
The door opened.
Aven stilled.
Not enough to draw attention, not enough to be noticed, but inside her awareness sharpened instantly. Every sense shifted, recalibrating.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.
She did not turn right away.
“Still pretending?” a voice drawled.
Cedric.
Of course.
Aven lowered her hands slowly before glancing over her shoulder. He leaned against the doorway like he owned the space, like he owned everything.
Like he owned her.
His gaze moved over her, assessing, amused.
“You know,” he continued, pushing off the frame and stepping inside, “watching you do this almost makes me feel bad.”
Aven said nothing.
He circled her, boots echoing softly against the stone. “Almost.”
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but her expression did not change. Control was not something she could afford to lose.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he added. “And for what? You can’t even shift.”
There it was. Casual. Expected.
Aven turned back to the post as if he had not spoken at all.
That irritated him more than any response would have.
She heard it in the shift of his breathing, the slight change in the rhythm of his steps.
“Did you not hear me?” Cedric asked.
“I heard you.”
Her voice was quiet, even, carefully balanced. Not submissive. Not challenging.
He stepped closer. Too close.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “You’ll never be anything more than what you are.”
Aven tilted her head slightly, studying the worn grain of the post in front of her.
“And what is that?”
Cedric smiled, as if she had offered him something.
“An omega,” he said. “A fragile one, at that.”
Aven’s lips pressed together briefly, not in hurt, but in restraint. The words rose anyway, sharp and precise, and she let one slip.
“Then why are you here?”
The silence that followed was immediate.
Tense.
She should not have said that.
She knew it the moment the words left her.
Cedric’s amusement did not disappear. It shifted.
Slowly, he reached out and caught her wrist, his grip tightening just enough to hurt.
“Careful,” he said softly. “You forget yourself too easily.”
Aven did not pull away. Pulling made it worse. It always had.
“I remember exactly who I am,” she replied.
His grip tightened further.
For a moment, she thought—
The door opened again.
Both of them stilled.
Cedric released her immediately, not out of kindness, but instinct.
Garrick Vayne stepped into the hall.
The air changed.
Aven lowered her gaze without thinking, her body already shifting into stillness, into compliance, into the version of herself that survived.
“Cedric,” Garrick said, his voice calm and measured.
“Father.”
Aven felt his attention before he spoke her name.
“Aven.”
Just that, and yet it settled over her like weight.
“Yes, Alpha.”
Silence stretched, deliberate and controlled.
Then—
“You will be presented at the Mating Games this year.”
The words did not make sense at first.
Aven’s head lifted slightly before she could stop herself.
Cedric went still beside her. “No. She’s not—”
Garrick did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
“She will participate.”
Final.
Unyielding.
Aven’s pulse began to climb, sharp and sudden, though her expression did not change.
For years, she had been told the same thing. That she was too weak, too fragile to survive something like that. That part had never been entirely untrue. She knew what she was. She could feel her wolf, faint and distant, but she had never been able to shift, never been able to match the strength of the others.
It was the rest of it that had been a lie.
The illness. The quiet explanation offered whenever anyone asked why she was never seen, never presented, never counted. In a world where sickness was rare, it should have drawn attention. It should have raised questions.
It never had.
Not when it came from Garrick.
And she had never been foolish enough to challenge it. Silence had always been safer than questions.
So why now?
Her thoughts moved quickly, fitting pieces together with practiced precision.
“The King will be in attendance,” Garrick said.
That was all.
That was enough.
Aven understood.
This was not oportunity.
This was exposure.
Cedric let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“She won’t last a day,” Cedric said. “She can’t even—”
“I am aware of her limitations.”
The words were calm. Final.
Aven felt them settle, heavy and deliberate.
Cedric scoffed, pacing once before turning back. “Then what’s the point? No one’s going to choose her.”
Garrick’s gaze shifted, settling briefly on Aven.
“Someone will.”
Something in his tone made Aven’s stomach tighten.
Cedric’s expression flickered, understanding dawning in a way that made his smile sharpen. “You think they’ll fight over her?”
Garrick said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
Cedric huffed out a quiet laugh. “That should be entertaining.”
Aven’s pulse ticked faster, though her face remained still.
Fight over her.
Cedric glanced at her again, eyes dragging over her in a way that made her skin feel too tight. “She won’t survive that.”
“No,” Garrick agreed.
Aven’s breath caught—just for a second.
Then Garrick added, “Not without someone strong enough to keep her.”
Silence followed.
He wasn’t talking about survival.
He was talking about possession.
“You will prepare,” Garrick said.
Aven lowered her gaze again.
“Yes, Alpha.”
The words came easily. They always did.
Garrick studied her for a moment longer, as if measuring something she could not see, before giving a small, almost dismissive nod.
“You will be ready by nightfall,” he said. “You will be presented with the others.”
Others.
The word settled strangely.
Aven inclined her head in acknowledgment, though she knew better than to ask questions. Questions invited attention, and attention rarely ended in anything she could control.
“Cedric,” Garrick added, already turning away, “see that she is prepared.”
Aven’s stomach tightened.
“Yes, Father.”
Garrick left as quietly as he had entered, the shift in the air following him out. Only when the door closed did the tension in the room loosen, though not enough to be mistaken for relief.
Cedric exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before letting out a short laugh.
“Well,” he said, glancing at her, “this should be interesting.”
Aven did not respond.
She kept her gaze lowered, her posture still, waiting.
Cedric moved closer again, slower this time, more deliberate. “You heard him,” he said. “You’re finally going to be seen.”
Something in his tone made the words feel less like an announcement and more like a warning.
Aven lifted her eyes just enough to meet his.
“I heard.”
His gaze flicked over her face, searching for something—fear, perhaps. When he did not find it, his expression shifted, faint irritation sharpening the edges.
“You should be nervous,” he said.
“I am.”
The answer was quiet. Honest, in its way.
Cedric’s mouth curved slightly, as if that pleased him more than her silence had.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need it.”
He stepped past her, brushing close enough that his shoulder caught hers, intentional in its carelessness. Aven remained where she was, waiting until the door closed behind him before allowing herself to move again.
The hall fell silent.
For a moment, she did nothing.
Then she drew in a slow breath.
Nightfall.
Not days. Not weeks.
Hours.
Her gaze lifted, settling on the narrow windows where the light had shifted slightly, pale gold cutting through the stone. There was no time to adjust, no time to prepare in any meaningful way.
Not that she would have been allowed to.
Aven flexed her fingers, feeling the lingering sting from where she had struck the post. It grounded her, something small and immediate in the face of everything else.
Think.
Panic would not help her. Fear would not change what had already been decided.
She had been placed in the Games.
That would not change.
What could change—
Her gaze shifted slowly across the empty hall, taking in every detail without really seeing it.
What could change was how she entered them.
Aven moved at last, crossing the space with quiet, measured steps. Each one deliberate, each one steady, even as her thoughts began to move faster beneath the surface.
She could not match their strength.
That had never been an option.
The Games had never been about fairness. They had been created long before her time, when the imbalance between males and females had begun to shift, when packs started losing females faster than they could be replaced. What had once been a ritual of selection had turned into something harsher, something that ensured only the strongest bonds survived.
It was never just males fighting for females.
Females were expected to choose wisely. To endure. To align themselves with strength, because choosing wrong did not just cost them status. It cost them survival.
Weak pairings failed. Weak protection broke.
And in the Games, failure was not forgiven.
Aven exhaled slowly, her thoughts settling into something sharper.
She would not only be hunted.
She would be judged.
Measured against others who were stronger, faster, more desirable. Females who had been raised for this, who understood how to draw attention, how to secure protection, how to survive the kind of chaos the Games created.
She had been raised to disappear.
Her fingers curled faintly at her sides.
That would not work here.
“You’ll come with us.”
The voice came from behind her, firm but not harsh.
Aven turned, measured and controlled, as two guards stepped into the corridor. Both were familiar. Both kept their expressions carefully neutral.
“Alpha Vayne wants you prepared,” one of them said.
Prepared.
Aven inclined her head slightly. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
There would be no delay. No time given beyond what was necessary.
Aven stepped forward without another word, falling into pace beside them as they moved through the corridor. The packhouse had begun to stir, voices low but carrying, the sound shifting as they passed.
People noticed.
They always noticed something different before they understood what it was.
Aven kept her gaze forward.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“To your quarters,” the second guard answered. “You’ll change. Then you’ll be brought to the lower hall.”
“What’s in the lower hall?”
The guards didn’t answer immediately.
They exchanged a glance, brief and almost reluctant, before one of them spoke.
“Someone to prepare you.”
Aven’s expression didn’t change.
She didn’t ask what that meant.
She already knew.
They reached the end of the corridor, where the stone widened into a quieter, more deliberate space. Aven slowed slightly as the doors came into view.
She had seen them before.
Never up close.
The doors were taller than the others in the packhouse, reinforced with dark iron bands that cut across aged wood, the surface worn smooth in places by time but never neglected. Carved into the center of each panel was the pack’s crest, deep and precise, the lines sharp enough to catch the light filtering in from the narrow windows above.
This was not a place meant for everyday use.
It was meant to be witnessed.
To be remembered.
Aven had passed by it more times than she could count, always at a distance, always moving, always with her gaze lowered just enough not to draw attention. Whatever took place beyond those doors had never been meant for her.
Until now.
One of the guards stepped forward and pushed the door open. It opened smoothly, deliberately, as if it had been waiting.
He stepped aside.
“Inside.”
Aven’s gaze lingered for only a moment longer before she crossed the threshold.
The air inside was different.
Quieter, but not empty.
The room was larger than she had expected, the ceiling higher, the walls lined with dark wood instead of bare stone. Light filtered in from tall, narrow windows, softened by thin drapery that muted the brightness without dimming it entirely. It was not a place meant for comfort.
Aven took it in without appearing to, her attention moving over the space in quick, controlled observations before settling.
She was not alone.
A woman stood near one of the windows, her posture straight, her presence steady in a way that felt practiced rather than forced. She wore no marking of this pack, no color or insignia Aven recognized, but there was something deliberate in the way she carried herself.
Authority, without announcement.
The door shut behind Aven.
The sound was quiet.
Final.
The woman turned.
Her gaze found Aven immediately, sharp and assessing, and it lingered longer than necessary. Not on her face.
Lower.
Aven felt it.
The subtle shift in attention, the way the woman’s expression stilled slightly, as if something had just been confirmed.
“Come here,” the woman said.
Aven did.
She moved forward without hesitation, her steps even, controlled, stopping only when the woman’s hand lifted slightly in indication.
“Stand still.”
Aven already was.
The woman circled her once, slow and deliberate, her gaze missing nothing. It was not invasive, not careless. It was precise. Intentional.
When she stopped in front of her again, she drew in a quiet breath.
Subtle.
Measured.
Recognition followed.
“You’ve been kept out of sight,” the woman said.
Not a question.
Aven met her gaze. The woman studied her for a moment longer, something thoughtful settling into her expression.
“I’ve been sick,” Aven stated flatley, the lie slipping through her teeth like a slippery snake.
The woman didn’t react immediately.
No correction. No disbelief spoken aloud.
But something in her gaze shifted, subtle and unmistakable, as if she had heard the words and set them aside just as quickly.
“The king dispatched us—“
“Us?”
“Eh-hem,” the woman cleared her throat before confinuting, “the king dispatched several of us to packs just like yours to prepare all the females entering the games this season. Unfortunately, since you’re the last female on the list, we don’t have much time to discuss things over. However, it’s my job to answer and instruct you on the games before entering so that you have less of a chance of getting yourself killed.”
Aven held her gaze, then paused when she noticed the aloof woman begin to sniff the air around her.
“You’re an omega?”
“Yes…how did you…nevemind. Why do you say it like it’s a problem?”
The woman sighed, her brows furrowing tightly together before resting again. “It’s crazy how you seem to know nothing about yourself or what you’re getting into. Has no one prepared you for anything?”
Aven didn’t rise to it.
“No,” she said simply.
The answer seemed to settle something in the woman, though not in a way that softened her.
“Of course they haven’t,” she murmured. “That would have given you a chance.”
“Why does me being an Omega matter?”
The woman watched her for a moment, as if deciding how much was worth saying.
“Because they’ll feel you,” she said. “Before they understand you.”
Aven’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters at first,” the woman replied. “Instinct comes before reason in the Games. Especially for the males.”
Aven’s fingers curled faintly at her sides.
“And after that?”
The woman’s expression shifted slightly, something more deliberate settling in.
“Omegas are rare,” she said. “Rarer than most packs will admit. They’re… valuable.”
“Valuable?” Aven laughed audibly. If she were that valuable, she wouldn’t have been treated like a rodent all of these years. Her disbelief was written all over her face. “Valuable for what?” Aven pressed.
“For what they can give,” the woman said. “Fertility. Stability. Influence, in the right hands.”
Aven held her gaze.
“So I’m something to be taken.”
The woman didn’t flinch at that.
“In the eyes of some,” she said. “Yes.”
Silence settled between them for a moment.
“And in yours?” Aven asked.
The woman’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“In mine, you’re something that will draw attention whether you want it or not,” she said. “Which means you’ll need to be more careful than the rest.”
Aven absorbed that without reaction.
“They’ll notice me,” she said.
“They will.”
“Even if they don’t know why.”
“Yes.”
Aven nodded once, as if confirming something internally.
“Then that doesn’t change anything,” she said. “It just makes it clearer.”
The woman studied her for a moment, something faintly approving passing through her expression.
“It should,” she said. “You won’t be treated the same as the others.”
“I haven’t been,” Aven replied.
A brief pause followed that.
Then the woman inclined her head slightly.
“Fair enough.”
Aven shifted her focus, practical again.
“What does it change in the Games?” she asked.
The woman didn’t hesitate this time.
“It makes you a priority,” she said. “And a risk.”
Aven’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“How?”
“Because more than one will want you,” the woman said. “And not all of them will care about the rules.”
Aven didn’t react outwardly, but something settled colder in her chest.
“Then I’ll avoid them,” she said.
“If you can,” the woman replied.
Aven held her gaze.
“And if I can’t?”
The woman’s expression didn’t soften.
“Then you make sure the one who reaches you first is strong enough that the rest think twice.”
Aven considered that for a moment.
“Understood.”
The woman watched her, measuring.
“Good,” she said quietly. “Then you might survive this.”
Aven inclined her head slightly.
“I intend to.”
The woman stepped back then, gesturing toward the garments laid out on the table.
“Get dressed. I’ll explain as much as possible in the car ride to the event site.”
