Chapter 3: The Ceremony’s Iconic Moment! Rejecting the Fated Bond
1480 Words
The next morning.
The Moon Temple Square at the heart of Silver Moon City hummed with a deafening roar of voices. Along the edges of the white marble-paved square stood row upon row of stone pillars, carved with the intricate runes of the moon.
Today marked the quadrennial continent-wide coming-of-age ceremony for the werewolf clans. The square was packed wall to wall with the core leadership of the four great kingdoms, nobles, and young werewolves on the cusp of adulthood.
Eira stood in the shadowed corner of the Silver Moon Clan’s gathering. She wore the most unassuming grey linen gown she owned, covered by a faded, worn cloak, its hood pulled low to hide most of her face. Her left hand stayed tucked in the cloak’s pocket, her fingertips brushing over the jade pass Serena had given her, over and over.
The warm thrum in her wolf core had never faded since the night before; the sealed power within it seemed to be gathering strength, ready to burst free of its cage at any moment.
“Look! The Black Rock Clan is here!”
A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd. The path at the front of the square split open as if by magic. A line of heavily armored Black Rock warriors marched forward in perfect formation, their heavy combat boots striking the marble floor with a thunderous, bone-rattling rumble.
The man leading them stole the breath from every single person in the square in an instant.
Kaelen Blackrock.
He wore a sharply tailored, minimalist black leather trench coat, the Soulfire Dagger—symbol of the Black Rock Clan’s supreme authority—hanging at his waist. Standing nearly two meters tall, his mere presence exuded a terrifying oppressive aura, thinning the air for a dozen meters around him. The low-ridden mounts at the edge of the square whimpered and dropped to the ground, not daring to lift their heads.
His cold, golden eyes swept over the crowd, devoid of any emotion, as if he were staring at a pile of inanimate stones.
Eira watched him through the crowd.
In her past life, it had been under this man’s icy gaze that she’d stammered out that humiliating confession, only for him to cast her into hell with his own two hands.
A dull, throbbing ache flared in her left wrist; the phantom pain of crushed bone, a sharp reminder never to forget the lessons of her past life.
“People of the Clans.”
Tobias, Chief of the Silver Moon Clan, stepped onto the raised platform, his voice carried across the square by the amplifying power of the moon crystal. He delivered a long, flowery speech full of empty platitudes, before announcing the first rite of the ceremony: the Proclamation of the Fated Bond.
Every werewolf who had reached their 18th year, who had sensed their fated mate, was required to declare the bond publicly here, to be blessed and witnessed by the continent’s primal magic.
Lila stood in the front row of the Silver Moon nobles, dressed in a gaudy golden gown, preening like a proud peacock. She turned her head, her gaze scanning the crowd until it locked onto Eira in the corner.
She shot Eira a vicious, triumphant smile, mouthed the words silently: Go on, sister.
Eira ignored her, standing perfectly still in her place.
At that moment, Kaelen on the platform moved.
Ignoring the ceremony’s protocol entirely, he took long, purposeful strides to the edge of the platform. Bruno, his second-in-command, followed close behind, his jaw tight with a frown, clearly wanting to intervene, but he said nothing in the end.
Kaelen’s gaze cut through the dense crowd, locking onto Eira, wrapped in her grey cloak, with pinpoint accuracy.
He lifted his right hand, his thumb brushing over his index finger in a familiar, habitual gesture.
“Eira Silvermoon.”
Kaelen spoke. His voice was deep, icy cold, laced with the primal earth magic pressure unique to the Black Rock Wolf King, landing sharp and clear on every person’s eardrums.
The square fell deathly silent in an instant.
“I know you are my fated mate.” Kaelen stared down at the grey-cloaked figure below, his tone frigid. “But the Black Rock Clan has no use for a waste who cannot even awaken her wolf core. I stand here today to declare: I reject this bond.”
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat of dead silence, then the square erupted into raucous, mocking laughter.
“Did you hear that? The Wolf King rejected her in public!”“This is priceless— a coreless waste, daring to reach for the Black Rock Alpha?”“She’s brought shame on the entire Silver Moon Clan!”
A tidal wave of jeers and sneers crashed over Eira.
Lila stood in the front row, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth in a feigned gasp. “Oh no, my poor sister…” But her eyes blazed with unbridled glee and malice.
Chief Tobias’s face had turned an ugly, livid purple, standing silent on the platform, clearly furious that Eira had humiliated him in front of the entire continent.
Everyone waited.
They waited for the meek orphan to break down in sobs, to fall to her knees like a beggar and plead with Kaelen to take back his words.
But Eira did none of that.
She slowly lifted her hand, and pulled the grey hood from her head.
Her silver-grey hair billowed in the light breeze, her face—once always cast down, hidden away—now fully exposed to the gaze of every person in the square. The faint beauty mark at the corner of her left eye blazed like a brand in the sunlight.
She did not cry. She did not tremble.
She walked forward, step by step, through the crushing weight of Kaelen’s aura, out of the shadow of the crowd, until she stood directly at the foot of the platform.
They stared at each other, separated by a dozen stone steps.
Eira’s gaze did not waver, not even for a second. She looked straight into Kaelen’s cold golden eyes, and the corner of her mouth twitched, a soft, sharp laugh slipping past her lips, clear enough for him to hear.
“What are you laughing at?” Kaelen’s jaw tightened, a frown creasing his brow. The tears and pleas he’d expected had not come, and a strange, hot irritation flared in his chest.
Eira did not answer him.
She reached into the inner pocket of her cloak, and pulled out a parchment scroll bound with silver thread—the primal scroll that held her fated bond with Kaelen. A bond that would remain binding unless both parties tore it apart in public.
“Kaelen Blackrock.”
Eira’s voice was not loud, but it rang out clear and unshakable across the silent square. She gripped the two ends of the scroll in her hands.
RRRRRIP!
A sharp, deafening tear of fabric split the silence.
The scroll that symbolized the most coveted fated bond on the continent was torn clean in two by her hands, without a single moment of hesitation.
The mocking laughter died in every throat at once. The square, holding thousands of people, fell so silent you could have heard a pin drop.
Eira tossed the torn pieces of the scroll into the air. The parchment scraps drifted down like snowflakes, settling between her and Kaelen.
“How convenient.” Eira stared straight up at Kaelen, every word sharp and unyielding. “This bond? I, Eira Silvermoon, reject it. From this day forward, we will never cross paths again, in life or in death.”
With those words, she did not spare Kaelen a single second glance. She turned on her heel, no trace of hesitation in her movements, and strode away from the square, her back straight and unbowed.
Lila’s fake smile froze solid on her face, the handkerchief slipping from her fingers to the ground without her noticing.
Chief Tobias stood with his mouth half open, frozen like a stone statue.
And on the platform, Kaelen’s habitual brushing of his index finger came to an abrupt halt.
The mask of icy indifference he’d worn his entire life cracked, just the smallest, almost imperceptible fraction. He stared fixatedly at Eira’s unyielding, retreating back, and a sharp, searing pain lanced through the very core of his chest.
The great black wolf within him roared in a wild, unhinged fury, straining against its cage, threatening to shatter his control entirely.
In his twenty-four years of life, he had always believed he held absolute control over everything. But in that single second, as the parchment scraps drifted down around him, he tasted for the first time what it meant to be completely, utterly unmoored—and consumed by a rage he could not contain.
- Writer
