Threadless

Chapter 1

The air inside the Matchmaker’s chamber shimmered like breath held too long.

Mickle Daris knelt on the stone circle, spine straight, fists clenched against her thighs. Around her, candles flickered within carved wolf-mouth sconces, their flames flickering in rhythm to the pulse in her throat.

Eyla, the Pack’s Matchmaker, stood barefoot at the edge of the circle, her eyes closed, arms raised. Her long white robes whispered over the floor as she moved. Threads of silver ink ran down her wrists, weaving into sigils that glowed faintly in the dim light.

This was the moment Mickle had trained for her entire life—not to fight, but to belong. To be chosen. To be bound. To hear Eyla speak the name of the one she was fated to love, fight beside, and someday build a future with.

But silence stretched on.

Mickle lifted her head. Eyla’s brows were drawn tight in concentration, her breathing shallow. The threads—the glowing lines of energy that only the Matchmakers could see—should have begun to dance by now. They should have formed a path, stretching from Mickle’s soul to another's. A sign of union. Of destiny.

Still, Eyla stood frozen.

A chill snuck down Mickle’s spine. Something was wrong.

The Matchmaker opened her eyes.

And stepped back.

Mickle’s heart thudded. “What did you see?”

Eyla’s voice was brittle, distant. “Nothing.”

“No… thread?” Mickle’s voice cracked despite herself. “That can’t be right. I’m—maybe you missed it. I can wait. I can try again—”

“There is no mistake.” Eyla’s expression faltered, and for a heartbeat, there was something behind her eyes. Regret.

But she masked it quickly and turned to the crowd of watching elders and pack council members gathered behind the ceremonial curtain.

“I declare Mickle Daris…” she hesitated. A second too long.

“…Mate-less.”

The word landed like a strike to the chest.

Gasps echoed from the onlookers. One of the councilwomen murmured a prayer. A child was pulled away by her mother’s hand as if Mickle had suddenly become a disease.

Mate-less.

No thread. No mate. No place.

Mickle stood too quickly, the cold rising up from the stone floor to grip her bones. “This doesn’t make sense,” she said, voice steady even as her world tipped sideways. “I’ve trained. I’ve earned my rank. I’ve done everything right. This—this doesn’t make sense!”

Eyla looked at her—not cruelly, but distantly. Like she was already watching her from another world.

“I’m sorry.”

Mickle wanted to scream. To shake her. But the words stuck in her throat, bitter as blood.

From behind the curtain, a figure stepped forward. Tall. Armored in pale steel.

Alpha Maris Silvers.

His mouth was a tight line, eyes sharp with something colder than disappointment.

“You will no longer represent the Silver Sable in training tournaments,” he said flatly. “You will be removed from the warrior track and reassigned. Mate-less wolves have no future in the bond structure of the Pack.”

Mickle’s jaw clenched. “You’re casting me out.”

“I am preserving order.”

Eyla said nothing.

Maris turned on his heel and strode from the chamber. The other elders followed, leaving behind a silence even the candlelight couldn’t fill.

Mickle stood in the circle alone, her breath loud in her ears. She could still feel the mark where her future should have been. A thread that never came.

She wasn’t chosen.

Not forgotten.

Erased.