One week.
Only one week had passed since the night Silas chose me over Kaelen’s blood in the collapsing storage room.
One week since he carried my silver-poisoned body through the toxic fog instead of finishing his greatest enemy.
One week since the pack had fractured in the Great Hall, since Silas had ripped Marek’s arm from his body to silence the rebellion, and since the whispers had begun: “Our Alpha has grown weak for an Omega.”
In those seven days, everything had changed.
Marek survived, but he was no longer Beta. Silas had exiled him to the outer patrols as a living warning. The mark on my neck — fresh, swollen, still slightly weeping — had been burned into my flesh three nights ago in a ritual of blood and fire that bound us far beyond the spiritual pact. The pack had watched
