Fated to Fall

Chapter 5

Chapter 5: A Cage of Shadows

The silence in the room was suffocating, pressing down on Virella like an iron vice. She lay still, her back to the cold stone, curled into herself as if the act of simply existing would be enough to escape this nightmare. It was over. The ritual was done. Draven had claimed her in front of the pack, sealed their bond with a kiss, and left her to the darkness.

Virella’s body was exhausted, but her mind was far from rest. The suffocating weight of the night lingered over her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. She hadn’t wanted this. She never asked for this. The thought of being tied to him, to his cold, unfeeling rule, was unbearable. She couldn’t, wouldn’t accept it.

Her eyes burned from the tears she had shed in silence—tears she refused to let him see, refused to show as weakness. She had been trapped, forced into a life she didn’t choose, and now there was no escape. No matter how much she hated it, she was bound to Draven.

She had been so desperate to escape before, to run from this life, but now she realized it wasn’t just Draven she needed to outrun—it was the truth she refused to face.

She was trapped.

The realization hit her hard in the chest, and the bitter taste of helplessness curled like poison on her tongue. But Virella refused to let herself sink into despair. If she had to play by Draven’s rules, then she would do it on her terms—if only to survive.

Outside the confines of their chamber, Draven moved with purpose, his mind focused on matters far beyond the personal struggles of his bond with Virella. The pack needed him. The boundaries had been tested by a rival faction; tensions were rising. His duties as Sovereign could not wait, no matter the cost.

He stood before the council once more, his presence commanding immediate attention as the pack leaders gathered in the cold, austere meeting hall. His mind was elsewhere—on the political pressures from rival packs, on the secretive factions plotting within his ranks. But even as the discussions swirled around him, a small part of his mind lingered on Virella.

The bond was done, the ritual complete, but why did it feel incomplete?

He shook off the thought. He would not allow distractions—especially not the tumultuous emotions that came with the bond he had forced on her. His duty had always come first, and tonight was no different.

“Draven,” Rynar’s voice broke through his thoughts. “The western borders are on high alert. We need your presence there. The rebels grow bolder with every passing hour.”

Draven’s face hardened as he nodded. “Prepare the men. I will deal with the insurgents. Our enemies do not know what they’ve provoked.”

Without another word, he turned, his cloak sweeping around him like a storm, as he walked away from the council room and into the night.

Back in her chambers, Virella sat in silence. The ropes had been removed, but the physical freedom she’d regained was little comfort. She stared at the flickering flame of the candles, watching the shadows twist and dance across the walls.

She heard the door creak open but didn’t turn.

Arwen, the woman Draven had sent to “help” her prepare for the birth, entered with measured steps. There was no warmth in her gaze, just quiet obedience. She carried with her a bundle of linens and herbs.

“You should eat,” Arwen said softly, setting the items down on a small table by the window. “You’ll need your strength.”

Virella finally turned, her gaze sharp, unyielding. “I don’t need anyone’s help,” she said, her voice low, cold.

Arwen didn’t flinch. “I’m here to make sure you’re prepared. For the child.” She paused, eyes flickering with the faintest trace of sympathy. “And for the Sovereign. Draven expects it.”

Virella’s jaw clenched. She wanted to lash out, to scream, to fight the situation, but she couldn’t. She was trapped.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Virella said, the words coming out more like a plea than a statement.

Arwen’s expression softened ever so slightly. “No one asks for their fate, but we must live with it. You’re not the first to be claimed by tradition. Many have come before you.”

Virella’s anger flared. “And yet I’m still treated like a tool, like nothing more than a breeding vessel.”

Arwen’s gaze turned distant, almost regretful. “That is what you’re expected to be, yes. But if you fight, you risk more than just your place here.”

Virella’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”

Arwen paused before answering, her voice quiet but steady. “If you don’t fulfill your role—if you defy Draven or the pack—there are those who will not tolerate it. The consequences won’t just fall on you, Virella. They will fall on everyone.”

Virella didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Arwen’s words hung in the air, a threat that Virella couldn’t ignore.

Later that night, as Virella lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts spiraled. The darkness of the room mirrored the black hole of despair threatening to swallow her whole. She closed her eyes tightly, blocking out the suffocating reality.

Was this it? Was this the life she was destined for—bound to Draven, trapped by the pack’s laws, expected to bear a child to solidify their bloodline?

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t going to let him break her. She would find a way out, a way to escape. She had to.

But for now, all she could do was wait.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the promise of impending battles. Draven stood on the balcony of his private chambers, staring out at the dark horizon. The weight of his responsibility as Sovereign pressed down on him, yet something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t name.

His thoughts returned to Virella. Her defiance, her anger—it was all so much more than he had anticipated. He had thought that claiming her would be simple, that the bond would be a matter of duty, a task to be checked off. But now… now he felt the pull of the connection, even if she did not.

He stood there for a long time, the cold wind biting at his skin, before he finally turned away from the balcony, the weight of his duty far heavier than the uncertainty of his emotions.