The gates to the Lycan stronghold rose like jagged teeth against a bruised sky.
Built into the mountainside, the fortress looked more like a ruin left behind by gods than a place men—or wolves—still called home. Blackstone walls towered over the snowdrifts, spiked with bone talismans and burning sconces of blue fire that never melted ice.
Elara stared up at the gates and wondered if crossing them would cost her more than blood.
"Stay close," Kael said, voice low.
He was still limping from the silver arrows.
Still bleeding beneath his shirt.
But he stood tall.
Proud.
Unapologetic.
Elara's sister remained behind, hidden in a safehouse Kael's scouts had secured. For now.
This was their crossing.
Not hers.
They passed through the iron maw, flanked by silent guards in black leather armor marked with glowing runes. The hallways inside the fortress were dim and cold, flickering with eerie light that made the stone shimmer like wet obsidian.
Every servant they passed paused.
Stared.
Eyes wide.
Some bowed.
Others whispered.
"Elara," Kael said under his breath, "don't look down."
"I'm not afraid."
"Good. Then they'll be the ones who should be."
The throne room was vast and silent.
Kael didn't lead her to the dais.
He led her to the center of the room, where a blood circle had been carved into the floor—old, cracked, filled with dried black.
A tribunal stood at the far end—five elders in ceremonial robes, half-shifted features lined with age and silver scars. Behind them, rows of lesser nobles and pack leaders formed a quiet audience.
Kael did not bow.
He simply stood, arms folded, and spoke:
"I've returned."
The eldest elder stepped forward. "With what?"
Kael's smile was sharp. "A bond."
The crowd murmured.
Kael turned to Elara and held out his hand.
"Come."
She walked to him slowly, her spine straight, her breath even.
She stepped into the blood circle.
A collective inhale echoed through the room.
"Is she…" one elder began.
"Yes," Kael said.
"My bloodbound."
Another voice—this one female, cruel—cut in from the shadows.
"You've bound yourself to a human?"
A tall woman emerged from the rows, clad in wine-dark velvet with silver thorns twisted through her hair.
Elara didn't need to be told.
She knew.
Lysandra.
But Kael didn't even glance her way.
"She is mine," he said, "in blood and vow."
Another murmur.
"You forget," one of the elders said. "You are not the only one who owes the pact a debt."
Kael's jaw flexed. "Say what you came to say."
The female elder lifted a scroll.
Old.
Cracking.
She unrolled it with slow precision.
And read:
"Let the blood-born carry guilt."
"Let the pact-marked kneel in flame."
"Let the Ransomer be chosen from those who trespassed and lived."
She looked at Elara.
Eyes cold.
"You trespassed into our sacred woods."
Elara said nothing.
"You shed blood on the altar."
Still silence.
"You awakened a pact not meant to wake."
Elara lifted her chin.
"I saved his life."
The elder smiled, pitying.
"Then yours now belongs to the pact."
The scroll burned in her hands.
Black flame.
A mark rose in the air—like a brand—hovering between them.
Elara's name etched into air by ash and blood.
Ransomer.
Kael growled.
"You will not mark her."
"She is already marked."
"It was my altar. My chain. My bond."
"She is human."
"She is mine."
The elders didn't move.
But the crowd behind them shifted. Quiet murmurs turned sharper. Meaner.
They smelled weakness.
Kael stepped in front of Elara.
"Elara Voss stands under my protection."
"Your claim is not absolute."
Kael's fangs bared. "Then test it."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the female elder sighed.
"Very well. Let the feast come. Let the blood decide."
She turned.
And the others followed.
The crowd dispersed without applause or acknowledgment.
Just cold glances.
Colder silence.
Later, in the guest quarters, Elara sat by the fire, staring at the strange sigil still hovering faintly above her skin.
Ransomer.
Not guest.
Not mate.
Debt.
"Do you regret it?" Kael asked behind her.
"No."
"You should."
She turned to him. "Do you regret me?"
Kael didn't answer.
He knelt behind her, hands brushing the back of her neck.
She flinched.
Not from the touch.
From the memory.
He removed the scarf she hadn't even realized she was still wearing.
Underneath, the bond-mark had darkened.
Pulsed faintly.
Kael exhaled slowly.
"Do you know what the title means?"
"Ransomer?"
"It means your blood belongs to the next war."
"Then I hope they choke on it."
He laughed—short, pained.
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"You first."
Kael leaned closer.
His breath at her ear.
"I'm not allowed to die until after the feast."
"When is it?"
"Three nights from now."
"And what happens then?"
He kissed the back of her neck.
And whispered, "Then you wear thorns."