The Silent Bond

Chapter 1

Amber

“Just try not to stare at the gold leaf on the ceiling, Amber. They’ll think we’ve never seen a roof before.”

Lena’s whisper is a warm puff of air against my ear, a small anchor in the glittering, roaring sea of the great hall. I try to pull my gaze down, I really do, but it feels like trying to look away from the sun. Everything shines. Everything glitters with a light that feels ancient and heavy.

“I think they already know that,” I whisper back, my fingers twisting the worn fabric of my tunic. It’s the finest thing I own, dyed a deep forest green, but here, surrounded by silks the color of jewels and velvets as dark as night, I feel like a weed in a rose garden.

My stomach growls, a low, embarrassing rumble. I press a hand against it, hoping no one heard. The smell in this hall is a weapon. Roasted meats dripping with juices I can’t name, bread so rich with yeast and honey it makes my head swim, fruits piled in glistening pyramids that I’ve only ever seen in faded drawings.

“It’s the quail,” Lena says, her eyes wide as she follows my gaze to a platter being carried by a servant. “They’re stuffed with figs and nuts. Can you imagine?”

I can’t. My mind can’t make the leap from the dried roots and tough, stringy rabbit that have been our only meals for months to this… this casual miracle. We are two dozen survivors, the last of the Silverwood pack, huddled at a table near the kitchens, and we are starving. We have been starving for a very long time.

“Remember the plan,” I murmur, forcing my eyes away from the food and onto the stern face of our elder, Ronan, who sits at the head of our small table. His face is a mask of stone, but I can see the tremor in his hands. He’s just as overwhelmed as we are. “We eat what is offered, we are grateful, and when the King asks, I speak. That is all.”

“You’ll be brilliant,” Lena says, squeezing my hand under the table. Her palm is calloused and strong, a familiar comfort. “You always know what to say.”

I don’t feel brilliant. I feel like a child about to ask a mountain to move. I clutch the smooth, cool stone of the pendant around my neck. It’s a simple piece of river rock, polished by my mother’s hands, my only link to a time before the blight took our lands and the sickness took our people. It feels small and insignificant here.

A woman at the next table laughs, a sound like tiny, sharp bells. She leans toward her companion, her crimson lips pulling into a sneer as her gaze sweeps over us. “Look at them,” she says, her voice low but not low enough. “Fringelanders. They smell of dirt and desperation.”

Lena stiffens beside me, her knuckles white where she grips the table’s edge. Her wolf is closer to the surface than mine, quicker to anger. I place my hand over hers.

“Let it go,” I breathe. “We are here for aid, not for pride.”

Her shoulders slump. “I know. It’s just… they have so much. They use more food for decoration than we’ve seen all winter.”

She’s right. The waste is staggering. It’s a physical pain to watch servants clear plates that are still half full. My own stomach aches with a gnawing emptiness that has become my constant companion. I try to eat the small roll of bread in front of me, but my throat is too tight. My whole body is a knot of fear.

Then a hush falls over the hall. It moves like a wave, starting from the grand entrance and washing over the hundreds of assembled lords and ladies, silencing their chatter, stilling their hands. I feel the shift in the air before I understand it. A pressure. A weight. Power so immense it feels like the air itself has grown thicker.

“He’s here,” Lena breathes.

The trumpets sound, a blast of brass and glory that vibrates through the stone floor and up my bones. Everyone rises. Lena pulls me to my feet. I keep my eyes down, fixed on the patterns in the marble floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“His Royal Majesty, the Alpha King, Theron of the Crimson Peak,” a voice booms, echoing in the sudden, reverent silence.

I can feel him moving through the room. It’s not just the sound of his footsteps, heavy and sure on the stone. It’s a presence, a force of nature. The primal part of me, the omega that lies quiet within my soul, stirs. It recognizes a power it has never encountered before. It shrinks, wanting to hide, wanting to make itself small and unthreatening.

I risk a glance up through my lashes. He is walking toward the high table on the dais at the far end of the hall. He is tall, broader than any man I have ever seen, with shoulders that could carry the weight of the world. His hair is the color of midnight, and though I cannot see his face clearly from this distance, I can feel the force of his command in the way he moves, in the way every single person in this hall defers to him.

He reaches the dais, and a woman rises to greet him. She is stunning, an Alpha female in her own right, her silver hair braided with what look like actual stars. Her gown is the color of blood and she moves with the lethal grace of a predator. She places a hand on his arm, a gesture of familiarity, of possession, and he inclines his head to her. The Queen.

He turns to face the hall. He raises a hand, and the room remains utterly silent, every eye fixed upon him. He begins to speak.

His voice fills the hall. It is deep and resonant, a voice used to command, a voice that could rally armies or soothe a kingdom. He speaks of harvests and treaties, of the strength of his domain. The words are for them, for his lords and his council, but the sound of his voice does something strange to me. It settles a trembling deep inside me I didn’t even know I had.

I find myself lifting my head, my gaze drawn to him against my will. It’s a foolish, dangerous thing to do. I am a petitioner, a nobody. I should remain invisible.

But I can’t look away.

His speech continues, confident and strong, but his eyes are moving, sweeping across the sea of faces before him. It’s a king’s gaze, assessing his court, his people. It passes over lords in their finery and ladies in their jewels. It moves, section by section, getting closer to the shadowed corner where my pack and I are hidden away.

My breath catches. His eyes are about to pass over me.

And then they stop.

They stop on me.

Time doesn’t slow down. It shatters. The entire world, the grand hall, the hundreds of people, the music, the scent of food, it all vanishes in an instant. There is nothing but his eyes. They are the color of a stormy sky, gray and deep and flashing with lightning. And they are locked on mine.

A jolt, violent and absolute, slams through my body. It’s not a thought. It’s not an emotion. It’s a physical impact, as if I’ve been struck by a bolt of pure energy. My wolf, my quiet, gentle omega wolf, rears up inside me with a force I have never felt. It howls a single, soul-shaking word.

*Mate.*

The air is ripped from my lungs. I feel it in him, too. Across the impossible distance of the hall, I see his jaw clench. I see his knuckles turn white where he grips the edge of the great table. His speech falters. He stops talking mid-word. A confused murmur ripples through the silent hall, but it sounds a thousand miles away.

I see everything. I see the strength in his jaw, the hard lines of his life as a king. I see the loneliness in his storm gray eyes. I smell him, somehow, over the cloying scents of perfume and food. Pine trees after a winter rain. Old leather and cold, clean stone. The scent of home. The scent of my soul’s other half.

The bond, the fated connection whispered about in stories, a myth to most, a miracle to a few, snaps into place between us. It is a golden cord of light, of warmth, of pure, agonizing recognition. It pulls at my very center, a divine and primal command to go to him, to be near him, to close the distance that suddenly feels like an unbearable chasm.

I see a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, then a flash of something fierce and possessive, a raw Alpha claim that makes my knees weak. His wolf is calling to mine, a mirror of the howl in my own soul.

*Mine.*

The single, perfect moment hangs suspended in time. It is terrifying and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever known. My life, which has been a long, gray road of hunger and loss, is suddenly flooded with impossible color. This is him. The one. My one chance at a life that isn’t just about survival, but about being whole.

The world begins to bleed back in at the edges. The murmuring in the hall grows louder. Someone coughs. The King does not move. He is still staring at me, his face a mask of conflict.

And then the moment is murdered.

The beautiful Alpha Queen at his side places her hand on his arm again. She leans in, her crimson lips close to his ear, her expression one of cool concern. “My love,” her voice is a perfectly modulated whisper, but in the amplified silence, I hear it. “Are you well?”

*My love.*

The words are daggers of ice in my heart. His gaze breaks from mine, turning to her. The golden cord between us doesn’t break, but it strains, and a cold dread begins to seep into the impossible warmth, extinguishing it like water on a flame.

He belongs to her.

My fated mate. The King. He is already taken.

The magic of the last thirty seconds curdles into pure, sickening horror. This is not a miracle. This is a curse. A cruel joke played by the Fates. My one chance at a full life, the other half of my soul, is the one man in the entire world I can never, ever have.

He looks back at me, his eyes filled with a torment that mirrors my own. The world is fully back now, loud and bright and suffocating. The lords and ladies are whispering, their eyes darting between the frozen King, the concerned Queen, and me, the terrified little omega in the corner.

“Amber?” Lena’s voice is sharp with worry. “Amber, what is wrong? You’re as white as a sheet.”

I can’t answer. I can’t breathe. All I can do is stare at the King, my King, my mate, as his Queen’s perfectly manicured hand rests possessively on his arm. The initial shock is gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying dread that sinks its claws deep into my soul. I came here to plead for the life of my pack. Now I don’t know how I will survive pleading for my own.

Chapter 2

Theron

The word ‘prosperity’ turns to dust in my mouth.

It happens between one breath and the next. My speech, a carefully constructed edifice of strength and stability, crumbles to nothing. Across the great hall, past the rows of lords and ladies whose faces are a familiar tapestry of loyalty and ambition, my eyes find hers.

A small omega. Tucked away at a table of fringelanders, dressed in homespun green, with eyes like a frightened doe startled from its shelter.

And the world shifts on its axis.

It is not a gentle turning. It is a violent, wrenching slam of recognition that hits me with the force of a physical blow. The air is sucked from my lungs. The gilded hall, the hundreds of people, the scent of roasted quail, it all vanishes. There is nothing but the path between my eyes and hers.

My wolf, the ancient beast that carries the weight of my crown and the strength of my bloodline, surges forward. It has been a decade since I felt its full power so close to the surface, a controlled and steady presence. Now, it rears up, untamed and absolute, and howls a single, soul-shattering command through every vein, every bone, every fiber of my being.

*Mine.*

My knuckles are white where I grip the great table. I fight for control, for the mask of the king to remain in place, but I can feel the tremor that starts in my hands and threatens to shake my entire body. My heart hammers a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs, a war drum calling me to her.

I see the shock on her face, the way her small frame goes rigid. She feels it too. Of course she does. The bond is not a one way street. It is a bridge of fire, and we are standing at opposite ends, both being consumed by the same impossible flame.

I see the terror in her eyes, the sheer panic of a creature caught in a trap it never saw coming. And I know, with a certainty as cold and sharp as a blade to the throat, that this will bring chaos.

A hand lands on my arm. The touch is cool, familiar, weighted with the rings of state and the power of our union.

“My love,” Seraphina’s voice is perfectly pitched, a low murmur of concern meant only for me, yet it cuts through the roaring in my head like a diamond blade. “Are you well?”

Her words are a douse of icy water. The fire of the bond does not go out, but it hisses and spits, throwing off a cloud of steam that fogs my mind. I tear my gaze from the omega. It feels like ripping a part of my own soul away.

I turn to my wife. My Queen. Her silver hair is a crown in its own right, her eyes the color of a winter sky, intelligent and assessing. She is not my mate. But she is my partner. The architect of a decade of peace, her power a perfect complement to my own. Ours is a union that secured borders and filled granaries. It is a fortress we built together, stone by solid stone.

I love her. It is a love of respect, of shared history, of a thousand political battles fought and won side by side. It is a calm, steady river.

What I feel for the omega in the corner is a tidal wave. An act of God. It doesn't build. It simply arrives and destroys the landscape.

“A momentary… dizziness,” I manage to say. The lie tastes foul on my tongue. “The heat from the braziers.”

Seraphina’s eyes hold mine for a second too long. She doesn’t believe me. She misses nothing. Her gaze flicks for a fraction of a second toward the back of the hall, toward the very table where the omega sits. She saw where I was looking. Of course she did.

“Perhaps you should conclude your remarks,” she suggests, her tone even. But I know her. The steel is there, just beneath the surface. Her hand remains on my arm, a subtle gesture of ownership for the whole court to see.

A murmur is spreading through the hall now. My silence, my faltering, has not gone unnoticed. I see Lord Valerius, Seraphina’s cousin, watching me from the council table, his lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. He smells weakness like a vulture smells carrion.

I must regain control. I am the King. I cannot let this unravel me in front of my entire court.

I force myself to look out over the crowd, deliberately avoiding the corner that pulls at me like a lodestone. I raise my voice, pushing the words out through a throat that feels tight with unshed snarls.

“As I was saying,” I boom, the sound of my own voice a small comfort. “Prosperity and strength are the pillars of this kingdom. And we shall defend them. To our allies, we offer our hand. To our enemies, our sword.”

I raise my goblet. “To the kingdom!”

“To the kingdom!” the hall roars back, the sound a welcome distraction. They all drink. I drain my goblet, the cool wine doing nothing to quench the fire in my blood.

The feast resumes, but the atmosphere has changed. The easy celebration has been replaced by a current of tension. Whispers are exchanged behind gloved hands. Eyes dart from me, to Seraphina, and then to the back of the hall where the fringelanders sit in uneasy silence.

I cannot bring myself to look at her again, but I feel her. Her presence is a constant, humming pressure against my senses. I know the exact rhythm of her breathing. I can smell her scent, faint beneath the heavy aromas of food and wine. Wild herbs and clean earth. It is the scent of sanity in a world suddenly gone mad.

“That little pack from the Silverwood,” Seraphina says, her voice casual as she cuts a piece of roasted duck. She doesn't look at me. “They seem… distressed.”

It’s a test. She is dangling the subject in front of me, waiting to see if I will bite.

“They have come to petition for aid,” I answer, my voice tight. I keep my eyes on my plate. “Their lands are blighted.”

“A pity,” she says, and there is not a drop of pity in her tone. “Valerius was saying their chieftain is a young omega. An unusual choice for a leader.”

I clench my jaw. She means her. The girl is their leader. My mate.

“Unusual times call for unusual measures,” I say, the words clipped.

“Indeed,” Seraphina replies smoothly. She takes a delicate sip of her wine, her eyes cold and watchful over the rim of the silver cup. The conversation is over, but the message has been delivered. She is aware. She is watching.

I am trapped. I am a king on my throne, surrounded by my power, and I have never felt more helpless. Every instinct, every primal command of my Alpha wolf, is screaming at me to rise from this table, to stride across the hall, and to claim what is mine. To take that small omega in my arms and let the whole world see that she belongs to me.

But the man, the King, knows the cost. To claim her is to set Seraphina aside. To set Seraphina aside is to break our alliance with her powerful family, to shatter treaties that have kept war from our borders for my entire reign. It would be an act of political suicide. It would plunge my kingdom into the very chaos I have sworn to prevent.

I risk a single, fleeting glance. She is looking down at her hands, her face pale. I can feel her fear like a physical echo in my own chest. This bond, this divine miracle, has terrified her as much as it has shattered me. She understands the impossibility of it. She sees the beautiful, powerful Queen at my side and knows there is no place for her here.

That knowledge is an agony all its own. The Fates have given me the other half of my soul only to show me that I must cast her aside. The cruelty of it is breathtaking.

The feast drags on for an eternity. I go through the motions. I speak to my councilors. I laugh at a lord’s clumsy joke. I nod and smile and pretend that my world has not been torn in two. All the while, I feel the pull of the bond, a golden cord stretching taut across the hall, threatening to snap and bring the whole damned ceiling crashing down.

Finally, it is over. The musicians play the concluding anthem. Seraphina and I rise. The court rises with us. We must lead the procession out of the great hall, back to our royal chambers.

I offer my arm to my Queen. Her hand settles on my sleeve, her grip firm. We begin the long walk, past the bowing lords and curtsying ladies.

Every step is a choice. Every step takes me further from the omega. My wolf fights me, a savage beast clawing at the inside of my ribs, snarling in protest. *Go to her. She is ours. Do not leave her.*

I lock my jaw and keep walking. I am Theron of the Crimson Peak. I am the Alpha King. I have a duty. I have a wife. My path was set long ago.

But as we reach the great doors, I allow myself one last look back. She is standing now, a small, fragile figure about to be swallowed by the crowd. Our eyes meet for a final, devastating instant.

I see no hope in her expression. Only a heartbreaking resignation, and a terror that mirrors my own.

This is not a miracle.

This is the beginning of a war. And the first casualty will be my soul.

Chapter 3

Amber

The whispers follow us like ghosts. They are thin, sharp things that slither through the gilded hallways and coil in the corners of every room. When I walk by with Lena, conversations die. Heads turn away. Fans snap shut with a sound like breaking bones.

“They’re saying you’re a courtesan,” Lena mutters, her jaw tight as we cross the main courtyard. She keeps her voice low, for my ears only. “A clever one. That you used some kind of fringe magic to… to enchant him.”

My hand goes to the simple river stone around my neck. Its smooth surface is the only comfort in this place. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course it is,” she snaps. “But they believe it. Look at them.”

I don’t have to look. I can feel their eyes on my back, a hundred tiny pinpricks of malice and suspicion. In the two days since the feast, we have become phantoms. Our petition for aid has been forgotten. We are no longer the desperate Silverwood pack. We are the King’s strange obsession. And I… I am the witch who caused it.

Even our assigned quarters feel colder. The servants who once brought us meager meals now leave the trays outside the door and flee. Ronan’s face has grown more haggard, the lines around his eyes deeper. Hope is a fragile thing, and I can feel it dying in my people.

“We just need to get our rations for the day,” I say, trying to inject a confidence I don’t feel into my voice. “Then we can go back. Just ignore them.”

“Hard to ignore an entire court,” Lena grumbles, but she falls into step beside me, her presence a small, defiant shield.

The courtyard is awash with midday sun. Lords and ladies stand in small, gossiping clusters, their silks and velvets a painful splash of color against the gray stone. They part for us like we carry a plague. We approach the supply master’s station, a small alcove where provisions are distributed.

The quartermaster, a man with a perpetually sour face, looks up as we approach. He sees me, and his mouth twists into a sneer. He deliberately turns his back, busying himself with a stack of crates.

We wait. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate. The whispers around the courtyard grow louder. I can feel the humiliation creeping up my neck like a hot rash. We are being made a spectacle.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice clearer than I expect. “We are here for the Silverwood pack’s allotment.”

The man doesn’t turn. “Allotments are for guests of the crown. Not for beggars and schemers.”

Lena takes a step forward, a low growl rumbling in her chest. I put a hand on her arm, holding her back.

“There seems to be some confusion,” a voice says. It is smooth as oil and just as flammable.

We turn. A tall Alpha stands behind us, flanked by two guards. He is impeccably dressed in dark crimson, his blond hair perfectly coiffed. There is an arrogance in his posture, in the contemptuous curve of his lips, that makes my skin crawl. I recognize him from the high table. He had been watching the King with a predatory focus.

“Lord Valerius,” the quartermaster says, bowing low. “No confusion, my lord. Just dealing with some… refuse.”

Lord Valerius’s eyes, the color of chips of ice, rake over me. They do not see a person. They see an insect to be crushed.

“So this is the little omega,” he says, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent courtyard. Every conversation has stopped. Everyone is watching. “The one who has so addled our King’s senses.”

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. My heart is a frantic bird in my chest, but I will not let him see. “I am Amber of the Silverwood pack. We are here to petition the King for aid.”

He laughs, a short, ugly sound. “Petition? Is that what you call it? I have another name for it. You cast a spell, didn’t you? Used some filthy, wild magic to ensnare him.”

He takes a step closer, invading my space. His scent is cloying. Heavy perfume and something bitter underneath. “He is an Alpha King. A god among men. And you are… nothing. A worthless, weak omega from a dying pack. You are not fit to breathe the same air as him, let alone catch his eye.”

My hands tremble. I clench them into fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. The pain is grounding. Do not break. Do not look away.

“The King saw fit to invite us to his hall,” I say, my voice quiet but steady. “We are his guests.”

“You are a pestilence,” Valerius sneers, his face contorting with rage. He lowers his voice, a venomous hiss meant just for me, but loud enough for those nearby to hear. “The Queen, Seraphina, is his wife. She is an Alpha of a bloodline more pure and powerful than you could ever comprehend. She is his strength. His dynasty. And you think you can slink in here with your sad eyes and your scent of poverty and undo all of that?”

Behind him, I see the faces of the court. Some look smug, enjoying the show. Others look uncomfortable, but none will intervene. This is a display of power, and I am the object being broken.

“We want nothing but aid for our starving people,” I say.

“Oh, you will get nothing,” he says, his smile turning cruel. “You should be grateful for any scraps the crown throws your way. You should take them, and then you and your mangy kin should crawl back to whatever hovel you spawned from.”

Lena lunges. “You bastard!”

I catch her arm, my grip like iron. “Lena, no.”

Valerius just laughs. “So the little mud-dweller has a guard dog. How touching. It changes nothing.”

He leans in, his face inches from mine. His voice drops to a whisper that feels more violent than a shout. “This is your only warning. You are a mistake. A momentary distraction. Disappear. Before the Queen and I decide to have you… removed.”

The threat hangs in the air, cold and sharp. My wolf is screaming, a terrified whine deep in my soul, begging me to run, to submit, to show my throat and end this. But the part of me that is Ronan’s student, my mother’s daughter, the last hope of my pack, refuses.

I do not speak. I do not flinch. I just hold his gaze. I let him look into my eyes and see that he has not broken me. I am a child of a blighted land. I have seen starvation and sickness. I have buried my family. His words are cruel, but they are just words. They are not the winter cold or the empty harvest.

I am made of stone and bone, and I will not crumble for him.

The silence stretches. It is a battle of wills played out in front of the entire court. His icy fury against my quiet resolve.

And I see the moment he loses.

A flicker of frustration crosses his face. He expected tears. He expected pleading. He expected me to fall apart, to prove his assessment of me as a weak, worthless omega. My stillness is a defiance he cannot comprehend, and it infuriates him.

With a final, disgusted sneer, he straightens up. “You will regret this,” he spits.

He turns on his heel, his crimson cloak swirling behind him, and storms away, his guards scrambling to keep pace. The show is over.

The court does not cheer. They do not comfort. They simply begin to whisper again, their voices a low, excited buzz. The spectacle has given them new fuel for their gossip.

Lena slumps against me, the fight draining out of her. “Amber, I’m so sorry, I…”

“You did nothing wrong,” I say, my voice still unnervingly calm. My body has not yet caught up with my mind. The trembling starts now, a violent shudder that wracks my entire frame.

I turn back to the supply master’s alcove. The quartermaster is staring at me, his sour expression now mixed with a sliver of fear. He saw it too. He saw a high lord fail to break me.

I hold out my empty ration sack. I don’t say a word.

His eyes dart around the courtyard, then back to me. He hesitates for only a moment. Then, with trembling hands, he grabs a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese and shoves them into my bag.

I nod once. “Thank you.”

Then I turn, take Lena’s arm, and walk away. I do not run. I walk with my head held high, through the sea of whispering courtiers, across the sun-drenched stone.

Each step is an effort. Each breath is a victory. I feel their eyes on me, no longer just pitying or suspicious. There is something new in their gazes now. Something that might almost be respect.

Or perhaps it is fear. I am no longer just the fringe omega. I am the woman who stared down Lord Valerius and did not break. And in this court of gilded predators, I have no idea if that makes me safer, or a more tempting target.