The silver blade catches moonlight as Elder Maren drags it across the ancient stone, carving the first line of my prison sentence. I stand perfectly still in Moonstone Square, my white fur rippling beneath my ceremonial cloak as every wolf from both packs watches the treaty take shape. The sound of metal on stone scrapes through my bones like claws on a coffin lid. Each stroke is permanent. Binding. Absolute. "Elena Whitefang, daughter of Elder Marcus, shall be given in marriage to—" I don't hear the rest. My father's hand tightens on my shoulder—the only apology he'll ever give me. Around us, hundreds of wolves from the Silverpine Pack and the Bloodmoon Pack form concentric circles in the square, their eyes gleaming in the darkness. Some faces show pity. Most show relief. Relief that it's me and not their daughters being sacrificed. "This is for the greater good," my father whispers, his voice barely audible over the carving. "Ten years of war, Elena. Thousands dead. You're saving us all." I want to scream that I never asked to be a savior. That being born a white wolf—rare, precious, supposedly blessed by the Moon Goddess herself—shouldn't mean I'm the perfect bargaining chip. But my throat is closed, my wolf clawing at my insides, begging me to shift and run. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Elder Maren continues carving, her ancient hands steady despite her age. "—to Kieran Bloodmoon, second son of Alpha Theron, in accordance with the terms of the Decade Peace Treaty. This union shall serve as bond and assurance between our peoples." Kieran Bloodmoon. I've never met him. I've only heard the stories. The Bloodmoon Pack's most feared warrior—before the injury that destroyed him. They say he took down twelve of our fighters single-handedly in the Battle of Crimson Ridge. They say he moved like death itself, unstoppable and merciless. They say the same explosion that finally stopped him left him broken, a shadow of the monster he once was. And now he's to be my husband. "The bride shall reside within Bloodmoon territory," Elder Maren intones, each word another chain. "She shall bear the Bloodmoon name, forsaking all claims to Silverpine Pack leadership or inheritance. Should she flee, should she betray her husband's pack, should she fail in her duties as wife and potential mother—the treaty is void, and war resumes immediately." My stomach turns. I'm not just a bride. I'm a hostage with a wedding ring. Around the square, I catch glimpses of faces I've known my entire life. My younger sister Mira, tears streaming down her face. My childhood friend Luca, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. My mother— No. I can't look at my mother. If I see her face, I'll shatter. "The groom's pack shall provide for her safety and wellbeing," Elder Maren continues, switching to carve the Bloodmoon Pack's obligations. "Any harm that befalls Elena Whitefang shall be considered an act of war. She shall be granted the respect and status befitting a warrior's wife, with all rights and protections therein." Rights. What a joke. I'll have the right to be a prisoner in silk sheets instead of iron chains. The carving takes hours. Every clause, every condition, every careful word that transforms me from a person into a political instrument. The treaty stone is massive, taller than two wolves standing, and by the time Elder Maren finishes, both sides are covered in dense text that glows faintly silver in the moonlight—moon magic sealing the words, making them unbreakable. Finally, she steps back. "It is done. Let the bride and groom come forward for the binding." My legs move automatically, years of training in obedience overriding my screaming instincts. The crowd parts, creating a clear path to the treaty stone. That's when I see him. Kieran Bloodmoon emerges from the opposite side of the square, and my breath catches despite everything. He's massive, even by werewolf standards—easily six and a half feet of solid muscle barely contained by his formal black attire. Dark hair falls across his face, but it doesn't hide the jagged scar that runs from his temple to his jaw. His eyes are the deep amber of the Bloodmoon line, currently fixed on the ground in front of him. Because he's walking with a cane. The legendary warrior, the unstoppable killer, the wolf who haunted my pack's nightmares—he limps toward me with halting, clearly painful steps. His jaw is set with the kind of determination that speaks of pride refusing to yield to agony. Every movement is controlled, measured, like he's calculated exactly how to cross the square without falling. Whispers ripple through both packs. I catch fragments: "—didn't know it was that bad—" "—can he even shift anymore—" "—what kind of husband will he be—" Kieran's shoulders tense with each whisper, but he doesn't look up. Doesn't acknowledge the speculation about his broken body. He just keeps walking, one agonizing step at a time, until he reaches the treaty stone. Until he reaches me. When he finally lifts his eyes, the impact nearly knocks me backward. There's rage in that amber gaze—not at me, but at everything. The war that destroyed him. The peace that requires this farce. The hundreds of witnesses to his humiliation. His own body for betraying him. And underneath the rage, something worse: resignation. He doesn't want this any more than I do. "Elena Whitefang." His voice is rough, like he doesn't use it often. "I am Kieran Bloodmoon. I swear on my blood and my pack that I will honor the terms of this treaty. I will protect you, provide for you, and bind myself to you until death releases us or the treaty expires." The formal words sound hollow. We both know what he's really saying: *I'll do my duty. Nothing more.* Elder Maren hands me a silver dagger. "Your vow, Elena." My hand shakes as I take it. The blade is ceremonial, inscribed with moon runes, designed for one specific purpose. "I am Elena Whitefang," I force out. "I swear on my blood and my pack that I will honor the terms of this treaty. I will stand as wife to Kieran Bloodmoon, forsaking my home and my name, binding myself to him and his pack until death releases us or the treaty expires." "Then seal it in blood," Elder Maren commands. I press the blade to my palm and draw it across. Blood wells up, bright red against my pale skin. Kieran does the same, his expression never changing. Elder Maren takes our bleeding hands and presses them together against the treaty stone. The moon magic ignites. Pain explodes through my palm, racing up my arm, burning through every nerve. I gasp but don't pull away—can't pull away. The magic is binding us, writing the treaty into our very flesh. Beside me, Kieran makes a sound low in his throat, the first crack in his stoic facade. When the magic finally releases us, there's a mark on both our palms: an intricate seal combining the Silverpine and Bloodmoon symbols, glowing faintly silver before fading to a permanent scar. "It is done," Elder Maren announces. "Elena Bloodmoon, you will leave with your husband's pack at dawn. May the Moon Goddess guide your path." Elena Bloodmoon. Not Whitefang anymore. I am no longer my father's daughter. I am a hostage. A bride. A living treaty. The crowd begins to disperse, both packs separating to their respective territories for the night. Tomorrow, I'll cross into Bloodmoon lands and never return to the home I've known for twenty-three years. Kieran releases my hand the instant propriety allows. "Dawn," he says curtly. "Be ready." Then he turns and limps away, leaving me standing alone at the treaty stone with blood drying on my palm and my entire future carved into rock.