The mirror offered no comfort.

Alarick adjusted his collar with mechanical precision, sliding his father's cufflinks into place — silver wolves mid-snarl, relics of a bloodline now hanging heavy on his wrists. The material was crisp, the lines of his suit perfect, yet it all felt wrong. Hollow.

His mother stood behind him, her reflection shadowed beside his own. Rieka De Lua, once the fierce Luna of Silvermoon, now the High Matron — and a survivor. Of what, he couldn't bring himself to ask. She had been in the room when Sierra died, shackled to a wall while the Bloodmoon wolves sawed off the Luna's head.

She never described it. He never asked. Only once had she spoken of it. "She passed out before it happened," she'd said quietly, eyes distant. "It was a grace, in a way."

Today, she looked like a ghost of her old self — thinner, paler — but regal in her black-silver robes. She stepped forward now, brushing a speck from his jacket and gently fixing the knot of his tie. Her fingers lingered at his collar, as if grounding herself with the small gesture.

"You will hold this pack," she murmured, her voice low but steady.

Alarick didn't respond. His jaw was locked too tight for words.

Across the room, Bardoul Lehal was pacing — back and forth, back and forth — the rhythm of agitation. His Beta had never liked ceremonies. Even less so when they involved Bloodmoon wolves. The blond-haired enforcer finally stopped to adjust his sleeves, trying to hide the twitch of nerves in his fingers. He met Alarick's eyes for a second and gave a sharp nod, but the tension in his shoulders spoke louder than anything.

"It's just a girl," Bardoul had said earlier. "Just a piece on the board. Don't give her more power than she's worth."

Alarick buttoned his collar and fastened the final clasp. His face gave nothing away, but his jaw clenched as if his bones might crack from it. Marrying a stranger. A she-wolf from Bloodmoon. A year to the day after Sierra's death.

But that was the problem. She had power — power born of the Lunashko name. Raff Lunashko's youngest daughter. A girl so highborn she was whispered to refuse her wolf form, too proud to shift. Too clean to run with her pack or feel the wind in her fur. Above it all, even her name irked him.

Alarick had never met her. Never spoken a word. And he didn't care to.

She was Bloodmoon's daughter — his daughter — the Alpha who sent Sierra's head in a box. Whatever softness she might've had, whatever innocence she claimed, was drowned in blood the moment her father offered her up like a lamb to keep the peace.

A door opened down the hall, echoing faintly. A signal.

"It's time," Bardoul said lowly, straightening.

Alarick nodded once, silence fell as they walked his trusty beta by his side and his mother squeezing his arm, this was just to secure the pack's safety is all.

The chapel was carved of old stone, wolf statues flanking the wide aisle. Candles flickered in sconces, casting golden halos against the pale marble. The old stone chapel was split like a battlefield — His pack sat on the right, sharp suits, unreadable eyes, loyalty etched into every line. Bloodmoon's wolves filled the left pews like a threat dressed in finery, brooding eyes and tense muscle with red moon roses on all of their clothing like blood marking the battleground.

At the far end of the aisle, the dais rose — black marble steps leading to the Moon Altar rising before him like a gravestone. Alarick stepped into place with his beta behind him and his mother taking her seat in the front pew, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing in, and still he didn't flinch. Let them watch.

He would bind himself to the enemy's daughter. He would say the vows. He would do his duty. But he would not give his heart again. Not to her, not to anyone.

As the doors at the back of the chapel opened the music shifted before he saw them — Raff Lunashko's unmistakable gait, smug even in ceremony. And beside him... The bride, his bride, the thought like a joking taught in his mind.

She was veiled, shrouded, silent but Alarick didn't look at her face. He wouldn't until the vows forced him to, he was doing this for the peace and safety of his pack nothing more.

Let her hide behind silk and secrecy. Let her pretend she was untouched by this.

He stared past her, to the moon symbol etched in stone behind the altar. Past the veil. Past the lies. Past the theater.

To Sierra. To the vow he was about to break. To the life he lost — and the war he hadn't yet begun to wage.

This wasn't a union. This wasn't fate. This was a leash.