At the Moon Hunt team announcement, I stood beside Nolan Pierce with the route map I had spent two years building for him.

He had promised that once the roster was called, he would finally name me as his mate.

Instead, he called Brielle—my older sister.

Then he handed her my map.

When I stepped forward, Nolan blocked me with one arm.

“No Alpha team can afford to carry an Omega through the mountains.”

Brielle smiled while her fingers covered the compass notes only I used.

That was when I understood this was not a mistake.

He had chosen her, and he expected me to keep helping anyway.

Before I could leave, four Ravenscar Alpha captains crossed the floor.

Cassian Vale placed a black team band in my palm.

“We know who drew that route.”

I pulled off my Silvercrest practice band and let him fasten Ravenscar's around my wrist.

Nolan caught my hand.

“You're not going with them.”

I pulled free.

“You said I was dead weight. They asked me to lead.”

For the first time, Nolan looked like he had lost something.

***

The silver crescent rested cool against the hollow of my throat.

Six months ago, Nolan had fastened the delicate chain behind my neck in the quiet of the northern woods, pressing his lips to my pulse point. *When the Moon Hunt roster is named,* he had whispered, his Alpha warmth sinking beneath my skin, *I won't hide what you are to me anymore. I'll claim you in front of the entire pack.*

Now, standing at the edge of the courtyard beneath the high banners of Silvercrest, I touched the pendant with trembling fingers.

The courtyard was packed shoulder to shoulder. Hundreds of pack members had gathered to hear the five names that would represent our territory in the annual Moon Hunt. It was the most brutal trial in the mountain territories, a race through lethal terrain where glory or humiliation awaited.

On the raised stone dais, Nolan looked every inch the future Alpha. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp golden eyes, he held the silver-tipped scroll that carried the council’s final selection.

Beside him stood my sister, Brielle. Her hair gleamed under the torchlight, her posture relaxed and confident. As an Alpha-born female, she carried herself with an easy arrogance I had never been allowed to possess.

Nolan raised a hand, and the murmurs died instantly.

"Our pack’s honor is at stake this year," Nolan’s voice boomed across the stones, rich with command. "The Moon Hunt demands power, discipline, and absolute resolve. Silvercrest will settle for nothing less than victory."

A cheer rose from the crowd. I caught his eye, offering a small, breathless smile. He looked straight at me, his expression unreadable, before glancing down at the parchment.

"Representing Silvercrest as our vanguard: Alpha Nolan Vance. Beta Garrett Shaw. Hunter Marcus Reed. Tracker Dane Miller."

Four names. The strongest fighters in our generation.

A hush settled over the courtyard. Everyone knew the fifth slot was the key. It was the navigator's spot—the one who would read the treacherous switchbacks and avoid the shifting deadfalls of the Frostfang pass.

Nolan took a slow breath, his chest expanding under his leather harness.

"And completing our roster as fifth member and lead scout..."

He paused, looking across the sea of faces until his gaze locked onto mine. My breath hitched. My hand tightened around the silver crescent.

"Brielle Cole."

The courtyard erupted into cheers.

The blood rushed out of my face. The roar of the crowd turned into a muffled, underwater hum.

Brielle stepped forward, radiant, soaking in the applause. She cast a brief, pitying glance down at me before turning her smile back to Nolan.

Nolan didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached toward the council table and picked up a heavy cylinder of weathered leather.

My breath caught in my throat. I recognized the brass fittings, the faint grease stain near the buckle.

He unrolled the parchment inside, letting the crowd see the intricate grid of ink, terrain markers, and wind patterns.

It was my map.

I had spent two years charting those mountains. I had climbed the frost-choked peaks at dawn, bled on the jagged slate, and measured the underground rivers with frozen fingers while Nolan sat warm in the Alpha den. Every contour was drawn in my hand. Every shortcut was a secret I had coaxed out of the wilderness.

Nolan held it up, presenting it to Brielle like a trophy.

"With this route," Nolan announced, his voice carrying over the fading cheers, "Silvercrest will reach the summit before any other pack."

Murmurs of confusion rippled through the older trackers standing near the platform. A graying warrior frowned, pointing toward the dais. "The Cole girl isn't a cartographer. Isn't that Wren's work? Shouldn't she take the fifth band?"

Nolan’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the crowd, his posture stiffening with authority.

"The Moon Hunt is a trial of endurance and blood," Nolan said coldly, his words cutting cleanly through the gathering. "No Alpha team can afford to carry an Omega through the mountains."

A collective silence fell over the courtyard.

The sting was sharp and deliberate, meant to put me in my place before anyone could question his judgment.

My hands clenched into fists. Pushing through the ranks of wolves, I climbed the stone steps to the dais. The guards tensed, but Nolan held up a hand, letting me approach.

"Give it back," I said, my voice quiet but steady.

Brielle shifted the rolled parchment behind her back, letting out a soft sigh. "Wren, please. Don't make a scene."

"That map isn't pack property," I said, looking straight into Nolan’s amber eyes. "It’s mine. You didn't walk those ridges. You didn't map the fault lines. If I'm not running, you don't take my work."

Nolan took a step closer, towering over me. His voice dropped to a low, warning hiss meant for my ears alone. "Stop this right now. You’re embarrassing yourself."

"You promised me," I whispered.

"I promised to do what was best for our pack," he countered, devoid of the warmth he had shown in the dark of the woods. "You’re an Omega, Wren. You can’t survive the physical clash at the summit. Brielle can. Your map will guide us, and when we win, the pack wins."

"You used me."

"I used your talents," he corrected smoothly, leaning in until his breath grazed my temple. "Don't let your personal feelings ruin Silvercrest's chance at the championship. Step down, be proud of what you contributed, and we’ll talk about this tonight."

I looked at him—really looked at him—and the illusion shattered.

He didn't want to bring me into the light. He never intended to. He wanted my mind, my labor, and my silence, tucked safely in the background while he took the glory with an Alpha on his arm.

"No," I said, stepping back from him. "We won't."

Brielle smiled faintly, clutching the cylinder tighter. Nolan’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation breaking through his composed facade, but he turned away, treating me as an afterthought.

I turned toward the stairs, intent on walking away from the dais, from the banners, from the lie I had lived for six months.

Before my foot hit the first stone step, the courtyard went dead quiet.

The crowd began parting in a hurry, wolves scrambling back against the perimeter walls to clear a path. The ambient chatter vanished, replaced by the heavy, measured crunch of boots on gravel.

Four figures were walking through the center lane.

They wore black boiled leather and charcoal coats, bearing no colors except the dark iron crest of Ravenscar. They moved with an ease that radiated absolute lethal capability.

Ronan, the towering frontline brawler, flanked the left with arms crossed over his massive chest. Elias, sharp-eyed and silent, watched the rooftops. Asher, the pack’s lethal hunter, had a lazy, mocking smirk playing on his lips.

And at their head walked Cassian.

The heir to Ravenscar. A true apex Alpha whose name made seasoned fighters lower their gazes. He was carved of sharp planes and dark hair, his slate-gray eyes fixed entirely on the dais.

The Silvercrest guards drew their blades half an inch, nervous energy vibrating through the air. Nolan stiffened, stepping forward to meet them at the edge of the platform.

"Cassian," Nolan said, adopting a formal, hostile tone. "Ravenscar is trespassing on Silvercrest selection grounds."

Cassian didn't even look at him.

He ignored Nolan completely, stepping right past the Silvercrest heir as if he were nothing more than empty air. He walked straight toward me, stopping only a foot away.

His height blocked out the torches, casting me in his shadow. Up close, his scent hit me—cedar, ozone, and the crisp bite of impending snow.

Cassian reached into his leather coat.

Nolan’s guards reached for their hilts, but Cassian didn't draw a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a strip of heavy black fabric embroidered with the jagged iron raven of his pack.

The fifth team band of Ravenscar.

Cassian held it out, opening his gloved fingers, letting the dark silk pool into my palm.

"We know who drew that route," Cassian said, his deep voice carrying easily across the silent square. "And we don't steal from our navigators."

My fingers closed around the black cloth.

On my left wrist, the white-and-silver training band of Silvercrest felt suddenly heavy, like a pair of rusted shackles.

Without breaking Cassian’s gaze, I reached down, tore the Silvercrest band from my skin, and let it fall. The white fabric drifted onto the dusty stone between our boots.

I held up my bare wrist to the Ravenscar Alpha.

"Tie it," I said.

Cassian’s eyes darkened with raw satisfaction. Taking the black ribbon, he wound it twice around my wrist, pulling the knot tight against my pulse. The iron thread gleamed against my skin.

"Wren, what the hell are you doing?!"

Nolan’s voice cracked with fury. He crossed the distance in a single stride, his Alpha command flaring so violently that the nearest Omegas in the crowd stumbled back.

For the first time in his life, he had lost control of where I stood.

His hand shot out, his fingers clamping hard around my forearm to drag me back. "You’re not going with them!"

I didn't cower. I didn't flinch.

I wrenched my arm out of his grasp with all the strength in my body, tearing my skin free from his grip.

"You said I was dead weight," I said, stepping shoulder to shoulder with Cassian as Ronan, Elias, and Asher moved in behind us, closing the circle. "They asked me to lead."

The heavy oak doors of the grand hall slammed back against the stone wall with a crack like thunder.

"Wren!"

Nolan’s voice cut through the cold corridor. Heavy, rapid strides echoed on the flagstones behind me.

I didn't stop. I kept walking toward the annex lockers, the black band of Ravenscar tied firmly around my wrist. The fabric was rough against my pulse, grounding me.

His hand caught my shoulder, fingers digging deep into the wool of my jacket. He spun me around, forcing me back against the arched stone pillar.

"Are you completely out of your mind?" Nolan’s face was flushed, his amber eyes blazing with wounded pride. "You don't walk away from me. Not like that. Not in front of the entire assembly."

"Take your hand off me, Nolan," I said, my voice level.

He let go, but he didn't back away. Instead, he crowded my space, dropping his tone into the low, persuasive register he always used when he wanted me to bend.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. "You think I wanted to leave you down there? It was strategy, Wren. Pure strategy."

I looked at him, feeling an odd, hollow detachment. "Strategy."

"The council elders were watching every breath I took," he said, gesturing back toward the assembly hall. "The Alpha seat isn't handed down by blood alone. If I took an Omega as our fifth, the traditionalists would have torn my leadership apart before we even left the gates. Brielle has the bloodline. She satisfies the council. You know how politics work here."

"So you gave her my slot."

"It's a title, Wren. That's all it is," he said, frustration creeping back into his voice. "I did it to protect my position—to protect *our* future. Once I take the Alpha seat after the Hunt, nobody will question who I bring to my side. You just had to wait."

"I waited two years," I said. "And you traded my name the second it bought you an advantage."

Nolan let out a sharp, impatient breath, running a hand through his hair. He looked at me as if I were a child throwing a tantrum over a broken toy.

"Fine. You're angry. You have a right to be," he conceded, extending an open palm toward me. "We'll deal with that later. Right now, I need the updated trail ledger. Brielle needs the snowpack margins for the northern shelf before morning drills."

I stared at his open hand.

"The map Nolan unrolled out there was the primary survey," he continued smoothly, entirely confident in his entitlement. "You spent two months refining the switchback elevations. Hand over the field notes. Those routes were mapped on Silvercrest territory, funded by Silvercrest provisions. They belong to the pack."

Without a word, I reached into the side pocket of my leather satchel.

Nolan’s jaw relaxed slightly, a faint flicker of smug satisfaction touching the corners of his mouth. He expected me to cave. He had spent months training me to absorb the blows and quietly clean up after his ambitions.

My fingers wrapped around the small, weathered notebook bound in black waterproof oilcloth. Every drop of ink inside was mine—crevasse depths, shifting scree, wind tunnels that could rip a wolf off a cliff face.

I pulled it out.

Nolan reached for it.

Before his fingers could graze the edge, I dropped the book straight into the deep interior compartment of my pack, pulled the heavy brass zipper shut, and fastened the buckle tight.

Nolan’s hand froze in midair.

"I mapped those ridges with my own boots while you were drinking in the high hall," I said, meeting his stare without blinking. "Not another line. Not another elevation. From this second forward, I won't revise a single coordinate for your team."

The muscle along his jaw ticked violently. "Wren, stop playing games. You’re embarrassing yourself, and you’re jeopardizing the pack. Give me the notes, and we can pretend this Ravenscar stunt never happened."

He reached for the strap of my satchel to take it by force.

A shadow fell over both of us.

The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop three degrees in an instant. The faint scent of crushed cedar and frost pushed past Nolan’s heavy pine scent.

Ronan stood just behind Nolan’s left shoulder, arms crossed over his massive chest, a wall of pure muscle. Asher leaned against the adjacent pillar, tossing a hunting knife between his hands with casual malice. Elias watched from three paces back, his hand resting loosely on the hilt at his hip.

And right beside me stepped Cassian.

The Ravenscar Alpha didn't draw a weapon. He didn't raise his voice. He simply placed himself between me and Nolan, his sheer presence forcing the Silvercrest heir back half a step.

"Get your hands out of her space," Cassian said.

Nolan bristled, his Alpha aura surging to push back against the intrusion. "Stay out of this, Cassian. This is an internal Silvercrest matter. She’s an enrolled tracker under my jurisdiction."

"She’s wearing iron thread," Cassian replied, his slate-gray eyes cold and immovable. "Which makes her mine to protect."

"She’s reacting out of spite!" Nolan snapped, looking past Cassian to glare at me. "She belongs here! She’s been in my den, working under my command for years!"

Cassian’s expression didn't shift by a fraction of an inch. His voice was absolute, cutting through Nolan’s bluster like a winter blade.

"You rejected her," Cassian said. "You don't get to veto who chooses her."

Nolan’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning stark white. He looked at the four Ravenscar wolves flanking me, then back at the black ribbon tied around my wrist. The courtyard outside was still full of people; a physical brawl in the corridor would shatter what remained of his dignified Alpha persona.

"You're making a mistake, Wren," Nolan ground out through gritted teeth. "A fatal one."

"Step back, Vance," Ronan rumbled from the side, shifting his weight forward.

Nolan took one slow, venomous look at me before turning on his heel and stalking back toward the main hall.

***

The team locker rooms were dead quiet when I walked in fifteen minutes later.

I had already packed my cold-weather gear, my compass, and my climbing picks into a single duffel bag. I was reaching up to pull down my spare boots when the locker room door swung open.

Brielle walked in, her silver vanguard band gleaming on her upper arm. She had already changed into her training leathers, looking pristine and untouchable.

She stopped by the wooden bench, crossing her arms.

"You’re really going through with this little rebellion, aren't you?" she asked, her voice carrying that practiced, gentle condescension she always reserved for me.

I pulled my boots down and stuffed them into the bag. "I’m clearing my gear."

"Wren, be serious," Brielle sighed, stepping closer. "You made your point in the courtyard. Everyone saw you throw your fit. But this is the Moon Hunt. It’s not a game. Nolan was only trying to keep you safe. You can't survive the summit scramble, and you know it."

I pulled the zipper of my duffel shut and straightened up. "Is there something you need, Brielle?"

Brielle hesitated, her mask slipping for a fraction of a second. She glanced at my pack.

"The northern approach," she said, pitching her voice low and reasonable. "The map Nolan had on stage shows the old switchback, but the snowmelt this spring makes that pass too risky for a full vanguard run. Nolan said you found a secondary cutoff along the eastern spine."

A bitter laugh almost escaped my throat. "He told you to come get it?"

"We're sisters, Wren," Brielle said smoothly, reaching out to touch my arm. "A competition shouldn't tear our family apart. If Silvercrest wins, our family’s standing rises. Just sketch out the bypass. You don't need it anyway—Ravenscar runs the western gorges, not the north face."

I stepped back, letting her hand fall into empty air.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy brass key to my Silvercrest locker, and dropped it into her open hand. The metal clinked sharply against her skin.

"There's your locker key," I said. "Anything in the official Silvercrest records is yours to use."

Brielle stared at the brass key, her eyes narrowing. "Wren, the official records are six months out of date. The frost heave altered the lower gorge. Where are your latest notes?"

"They’re leaving with me."

"You're sabotaging your own pack!" Her voice rose, losing its sweet veneer. "You know I can't read the shifting ice without those baseline markers! If we hit a deadfall—"

"Then I guess you shouldn't have taken the navigator's spot," I said coldly.

I hauled my duffel over my shoulder, grabbed my satchel, and walked past her toward the exit.

"Wren!" Brielle called after me, her voice sharp with panic and anger. "You come back here!"

I didn't turn around.

The heavy iron doors of the training compound yielded beneath my hand, letting in the biting mountain wind. Outside, the black transport belonging to Ravenscar waited at the edge of the gravel drive, its engine rumbling low in the quiet evening. Cassian stood by the open passenger door, waiting.

As I reached the foot of the stone steps, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out.

The screen lit up with a single message from Nolan.

*You'll come back before the Hunt starts.*

I stared at the words, feeling the last lingering thread of an old, foolish loyalty snap clean in two.

Without typing a word, I locked the screen, slid the phone into my pocket, and walked toward the waiting wolves in black.

The workshop beneath the Ravenscar compound smelled of iron filings, boot grease, and cold stone.

Unlike the polished cedar lockers at Silvercrest, this space was purely functional. Heavy timber benches lined the perimeter, equipped with vise grips, tension cables, and rows of black tactical gear.

Ronan stood over my opened duffel, sorting through the climbing equipment with practiced efficiency. He tested the spring on each cam, weighed the ice pitons in his massive calloused palm, and tossed aside anything that didn't meet Ravenscar standards. Asher leaned against a tool chest, tossing a whetstone between his hands, while Elias methodically oiled the latches on a pair of snowshoes.

Cassian stood near the door, his dark coat unbuttoned, watching in silence.

"Most of this is standard Silvercrest issue," Ronan muttered, his low voice vibrating in his chest. "Lightweight, decent alloy, but flimsy in a crosswind."

He unbuckled the small canvas repair roll I had kept tucked at the bottom of the bag. Inside was an older harness—the dark gray nylon webbing I had used during my solitary mapping treks across the northern ridges.

Ronan pulled it out by the waist loop, letting the leg straps dangle. He ran two fingers down the left shoulder support, then stopped abruptly.

His jaw set. The easy rhythm of his inspection vanished.

"Asher," Ronan said, his voice dropping an octave. "Look at this."

Asher caught his whetstone, pushed off the tool chest, and walked over. Elias paused his work, his sharp eyes flicking toward the bench.

Ronan stretched the load-bearing strap over the edge of the wood, angling it beneath the overhead work lamp.

"What is it?" I asked, stepping closer.

"Come see for yourself," Ronan said, stepping aside just enough to let me look.

The heavy nylon weave was split almost three-quarters of the way through, right where the strap met the primary chest carabiner. But the threads weren't frayed from friction against granite. They weren't torn by jagged ice or worn down by sunrot.

The incision was flat, precise, and completely clean.

"A sharp blade," Asher said quietly, his lazy smirk disappearing. "Scored deep enough to hold together while you put it on, but thin enough that fifty pounds of drop weight would shear it clean off."

My stomach turned to ice.

A sudden rush of memories hit me, sharp and disjointed.

The night before the Moon Hunt announcement. It had been past eleven, long after curfew. I had gone down to the Silvercrest gear bay to check the tension on my crampons. When the heavy door creaked open, someone had been standing near my locker in the shadows.

Brielle.

She had jerked her hand back from my bench, startled, hiding something behind her thigh. When she saw it was me, her easy, condescending smile had returned instantly. She claimed she had lost an earring during evening drills and wandered down to look for it. I had been exhausted, my mind consumed with the promise Nolan had whispered to me in the woods, so I let it go.

The next morning, when I threw my kit together before dawn, the strap had felt loose. Seeing the split threads in the dim light, I had assumed the webbing had finally rotted from months of frost damage. In a rush to make roll call, I shoved it into my repair pouch, pulled a backup harness from the rack, and never thought about it again.

Until now.

If I had worn that harness onto the frost cliffs—if I had taken a lead fall on the north shelf—the strap would have snapped instantly. I would have dropped three hundred feet onto the scree.

The workshop went dead quiet.

Ronan laid the harness flat on the bench, his knuckles white against the dark timber. Asher was staring at me, his eyes dark with predatory intent. Elias crossed his arms, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

None of them moved to grab their weapons. None of them barked out orders or demanded that I march back to Silvercrest to confront the council.

Cassian stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the flagstones. He stopped across the table from me, looking down at the severed nylon, then up into my eyes.

"You knew the strap was damaged," Cassian said, his voice entirely level.

"I thought it was worn out," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I found it split the morning of the roster announcement. I grabbed a spare and threw this in the repair kit."

"Who was near your locker?" Ronan growled, his chest rumbling.

"Ronan," Cassian said sharply.

The giant warrior fell silent, though the tension vibrating off his shoulders remained palpable.

Cassian kept his gaze locked on mine. There was no pity in his slate-gray eyes, nor the suffocating control Nolan had always exerted over my choices.

"We're not going to drag you to the elders," Cassian said calmly. "And we're not going to tell you how to play this. It's your gear. It was your life on the line. What do you want to do with it?"

It was the first time an Alpha had ever asked for my decision instead of issuing an order.

I stared at the clean cut in the webbing. My heart was pounding, but beneath the fear was a cold, sharp anger that cleared away the last remnants of my hesitation.

"I need to know something first," I said.

Cassian gave a single, slow nod. "Take your time."

I stepped away from the bench, pulling my phone from my coat pocket. My thumbs were steady as I tapped open the message thread with Nolan. His last message—*You'll come back before the Hunt starts*—still glared back at me from the screen.

I typed out a single line:

*Do you remember Brielle being down in the gear bay the night before the announcement?*

I hit send.

I set the phone on the edge of a nearby shelf and waited. Asher leaned back against the counter, watching me with quiet curiosity. Ronan stood guard by the bench, while Elias returned to his snowshoes, working with deliberate, quiet focus.

Less than twenty seconds passed before the screen lit up.

A single notification popped up.

Nolan’s reply:

*Don't turn an old strap into an accusation.*

The air seemed to leave my lungs in a sharp gasp.

I hadn't mentioned a strap.

I hadn't mentioned damage, a knife, or the repair kit. I had only asked if he remembered Brielle being in the gear bay.

He knew.

He had known about the severed strap before I ever tied the black iron ribbon around my wrist. Whether Brielle had told him afterward or he had seen the cut himself, he hadn't warned me. He hadn't pulled her from the roster for endangering a packmate. He had simply buried it, protected his Alpha-born female, and used the incident to clear my name from the mountain run entirely.

A bitter, quiet sound escaped my throat.

Nolan hadn't just replaced me for political advantage. He had shielded the person who tried to break my neck.

"Wren?" Asher asked softly, stepping half a pace closer. "What did he say?"

I didn't answer. I locked the screen, slid the phone back into my pocket, and walked over to the wooden bench.

Without a word, I grabbed the severed harness, rolled it up tight, and shoved it deep into the dark interior of my pack, pulling the zipper shut with a sharp, decisive rasp.

I looked up at the four wolves watching me.

"They have my old map," I said, my voice steady, carrying clearly across the quiet room. "They have my trail markers, my elevation notes, and the switchbacks I charted over the last two years."

Cassian’s eyes sharpened. "And?"

"And they think that's the only way up the mountain," I said. "They're expecting me to fight them for the north shelf. They're expecting us to follow the routes they stole."

A slow, vicious smile spread across Asher's face. Ronan let out a low rumble of approval from deep in his throat.

I met Cassian’s gaze, letting the black band around my wrist catch the harsh workshop light.

"Be ready before dawn," I said. "I'm drawing a new line. One they've never seen."